


On the Subject of Griffons

by Wind_Ryder



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fantasy AU, Frenemies, Ghosts, Mystery, Sick Character, Slow Burn, Suspense, griffons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 98,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7155665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliza’s hand presses to her lips, and she leans against the doorway. 'No,' she thinks. 'No. Not little Phil…'</p><p>But it’s too late. The plague has come to the Grange. And for the second time in as many years, she feels helpless. </p><p>____________________</p><p>After Alexander's death, Eliza struggles to balance her household's finances, her family's well being, and her own personal grief. When a plague starts to take over the city, she's caught unprepared as her youngest son falls ill. Determined to not let him die, she decides to take him with her to find the griffons. Legendary beasts who are known to carry the power to cure all ailments. </p><p>Along the way, she runs into Maria Reynolds. Maria's daughter Susan is ill too. Despite all of their personal grievances, they agree to work together to reach the griffons' nest. Discovering more about themselves and their lives than ever before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plague

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this story! Shockingly, it's my first Hamilton fic that's NOT in the Non-Stop universe. I hope you all like it.
> 
> Now Posted Complete!
> 
> Once again, thank you very much asexual-octopus, not only for the idea, but for being a wonderful ear as I work. I've truly enjoyed working on this with you.

Eliza sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap. On one side sits her father, negotiating with the bankers. On the other sits her sister, silently offering support where she can. Eliza would prefer to have this conversation without their eager representation, but her guests have come no less than four times this week. They aren't interested in speaking to the lady of the house, and she's tired of listening to them spin the same horrid story.

Every day they start the same way, "You must understand..." and every day she nods her head and tries to explain the exact same thing her father explains now. The Grange is her home, and she will not be moved from it. The debts will be paid, but considering her husband's death...she needs time to restructure that debt.

Had she missed a payment, perhaps she'd feel more generous. But this is a preventative measure, they insist, something that she should think about for the future of her children. _(“The plague has come to the city, madame. You should take the money and leave before you and your family are similarly affected.”)_ The bankers even promise her a pretty penny for her house. However, she is so exhausted by their presence. Exhausted by their insistence she behave.

Angelica reaches out and threads her fingers through Eliza's hand. She squeezes a little. Smiling at Eliza. Encouraging and supportive. As always. Eliza tries to smile back. Tries pulling her lips upwards. Lift the skin of her cheeks up just enough to provide an emotion of sorts. From Angelica's crestfallen expression, Eliza's certain she missed her mark.

She sags again. Shoulders falling out of their perfect posture. After two hours of negotiations, through which most she'd been entirely ignored, Eliza cannot fathom why her presence would be required. "Excuse me, gentlemen," she beseeches. She pushes from the pale green couch Alexander had purchased for her during her first pregnancy, and she strides from the room.

Angelica follows behind, keeping careful pace with her. Not too close as to potentially risk stepping on the hem of her dress, but still close enough that Eliza can feel her walking behind. "They're not trying to be disrespectful," Angelica informs Eliza briskly. Incapable of hiding her own frustration, it seems.

Eliza nods. She knows that. Knows it so well, in fact, that when they come tomorrow, she'll hear them tell it to her face. _"We're just concerned for you, Widow Hamilton,"_ they'll say. And then they'll request that she sell her home and all her worldly belongings once more. Just yesterday they'd taken it upon themselves to instill their opinions on her current state of being. _"A young woman such as yourself...widowed so early in your life. You should be taken care of by a gentleman who will not act so brashly."_

There is only so much she's willing to tolerate at the moment, and their opinions on how she conducts her life after marriage are none of their concern. "You'd think my husband had been dead an age by how they carry on," she murmurs. Letting her eyes travel along the walls of her home. They're undusted. Should be washed. She hasn't managed to quite bring herself to do it. The servants were sent away not long after Alexander's death. (She hadn't been entirely reckless with her finances.)

But now the house is unwashed. There's a faint smell of something coming up from the floorboards. Though she hasn't yet had the energy to find it. She knows that occasionally Angelica herds the children into moments of industriousness. Eliza's heard them singing songs as they clean their rooms and tidy the kitchen.

"It has been a year," Angelica reminds.

"Has it?" That can't possibly be true. There were no celebrations for the start and end of winter. No feast days. She cannot recall the name-day gatherings. They'd not celebrated her union day. Unconsciously, she folds her hands together. Rubbing at the ring she still wore. Two bands folded together in an endless loop.

Her sister asks her where they're going, and Eliza stops her mindless wandering. Brings her feet to a halt. She looks around them. They've been walking in circles. Looping up and around the Grange's second floor without so much as a pause to float between rooms. Dropping her hands back to her sides, she presses her mouth together. "It's all right to grieve," Angelica tells her delicately.

Eliza laughs.

No it's not.

She hasn't been permitted the luxury of grieving without condemnation since the day following Alexander's funeral. She has ei— _seven_ children. It is her responsibility to find them a father who will raise them properly. Who will not lead them down the path of dueling and debauchery. She's heard the whispers in the streets. The vile things said at the market. "At least the young one won't remember him." As if Philip not knowing his father was a good thing.

"Can you imagine what Alexander would have said to our guests downstairs," she asks Angelica instead. Their dear Alexander. Loved and hated by all in equal measure. Angelica allows the change of topic. Allows the lighthearted dreaming to commence.

She steps closer and loops her arm around Eliza's. "I imagine he would have given them quite the lecture on proper banking and financing, and they would be sitting upon the couch taking notes the whole while. Charmed by his nature and awed by his genius." And after they'd left, he’d sweep her up in his arms and kiss her cheek. She’d push him away, blushing terribly. Listen as he praised her intelligence, giggle as he asked her why she couldn’t lead a bank instead. “ _You’re far better suited, my dear Betsey.”_ He’d complain about their insignificance. Rush off to write some scathing letter to their superiors. Or perhaps be boasted by their praise.

Her Alexander loved the casual adoration of those he inspired. Relished their obvious awe and wonder at merely being in his presence.

“He would not have much restraint with talk of the plague,” Eliza murmurs softly. Alexander had been devoted to his children and wife. Aside from one indiscretion, he’d been a superb husband. Someone implying that he’d been unfit parent because they’d not sold their home to escape the plague would not have gone over well.

Eliza can picture him truly, as if he stood there before them now. Slight body dressed in a fierce green, coat delicately adorning his shoulders with pride. Though not a tall man, Alexander commanded each room he walked into. Drawing himself to greater heights by mere presence alone. He excelled at challenging social norms if only to secure votes and opinions as needed at the time. She’d once seen him clamber atop a table in order to physically tower over the writhing worm of a man daring to challenge his ideals.

Alexander would have eviscerated these skulking bankers. Torn them limb from limb, reducing them to nothingness. And she, his good wife, would sit there and smile. Politely remind him that tables were not to be stood upon, and offering their guests tea with the steely eyed strength of a woman who was well and truly in control of her own life.

He’d have smiled at her. Accepted her hand as he leapt from his perch. Apologized for his exuberance even as he affirmed that the bankers believed him completely. So scandalized by his behavior, they’d likely agree and hurry off. Likely _wish_ the plague on them while they were at it...for even before the door clicked shut behind them, Alexander will have been smiling. Laughing. Taking her hands in his and promising her not to worry. He’ll take care of everything.

Eliza feels something wet prick at her eyes, and she turns her head so her sister can’t see. Feigns adjusting her hair so she can trail her sleeve across her lashes. Catching tears on the edge of her cotton sleeve. Angelica, however, is not swayed by her attempts at normalcy. Her dreams of privacy and the ability to mourn in peace. “Would it be so bad to sell the Grange?” she asks quietly.

The words are a betrayal. A dagger in her heart. Eliza feels them wrap around her throat. A cloying hand that strangles even as it pretends to help. She tells herself her sister means well, but she cannot bring herself to truly appreciate such unneeded guidance. Uncaring if her tears are spotted, Eliza turns toward her. Chin tilted up. “This is our home,” she states firmly. “And I’ll not lose my home to some banker who wishes to add it to their collection. Alexander promised me forever in this home, and I shall not lose it because he—he _died._ ” She stumbles over the phrase.

One hand slips to the locket she’s worn each day of their marriage.  From the moment the handsome young soldier who had smiled at her politely and asked for a dance, became the awkwardly shy (yet undeniably vocal) man she loved.   _ (“Keep this to your breast, Dear Betsey,”  _ he’d told her on their wedding day.  Knowing full well he’d be off to the war in the morning.  Not time for celebrations.   _ “And keep me in your heart.  I wish you all the happiness in the world.”) _ She runs her fingers over the locket’s sides and edges.  Thumbs at the clasp with a nail in need of snipping.

“There is a lot of debt that is in need of...restructuring,” Angelica continues delicately. Undaunted by Eliza’s position. Her concern is sisterly and fond. Eliza will not be swayed.

“I will not take my children from the home their father built for them.”

Angelica folds her hands in front of her body. They hang down by her hips. A delicate gesture of calm acceptance. She nods her head. Even bends her knees just a little. The slightest courtesy Eliza’s ever seen. An apology and polite acceptance in one. “I am worried for you, my Eliza,” Angelica tells her softly.

“Well you need not be.” Even if her father ceases his support, even if her sister refuses her aide, she will not be moved from this house. She will not leave her home. The gods themselves couldn’t move her from this building. So let the bankers try.

Tipping her head toward her sister, she requests a few moments privacy. Angelica doesn’t seem surprised by her question. It’s one that Eliza’s asked countless times over the past few months. She does seem resigned however. Resigned and despondent by her position. Still, she smiles at her. Gently leans forward and kisses Eliza’s cheek. Telling her she’d attend to the children, wherever they may be.

Watching her go, Eliza struggles to keep her back straight. To keep from folding forwards and crumbling. She waits until Angelica is out of sight before stumbling to her room. Opening the door and closing it behind her. Leaning back against it, and sliding down.

Her dress pools around her. Fabric bunching along the boards. She draws her knees up, resting her brow against them. Taking a few shuddering breaths, she tries to overcome the hysteria she suddenly feels.

As foolish and as ignorant as the bankers may think her, she is fully aware of her predicament. Fully cognizant of all the facets that were put into place. For all his wonderful talents, Alexander had borrowed outside their ability to pay in order to build their home. Had promised her the world, and ignored the cost. Desperate to give her a life she thought she wanted.

No.

She never wanted this.

She just wanted her husband home with her. Had wanted it even before they were wed. When he was merely a penniless soldier fighting in the Revolution. Desperate and eager to please. Oh how she wished she could turn back the clocks. Take him by his hand on their wedding night and have him swear to leave it all behind after the war. Merely work as a lawyer, quiet and uninterested in politics. Make a meager wage that they could share amongst themselves. No dreams of Granges or glory.

No pistols at dawn.

Eliza allows herself a moment to laugh. Holding the locket tight. Tears staining her knees. She laughs. Alexander would never have settled. Would have roamed their home like a caged beast, desperate to break free. Chained down and dangerous. Clever tongue turned cruel. Snapping and snarling at all who came to pass. Their marriage would no longer be a thing he treasured. But a thing he endured.

If she’d thought he’d betrayed her faith with one affair, then he’d most certainly have disparaged their union with countless more had she tried to stifle him. He was a centaur. Beautiful to behold, but fierce and unwavering. Fiercely intelligent, in equal parts brutal and kind.

Something shatters downstairs. Glass spreading across the floor. Echoing throughout the house. Angelica screams, and Eliza’s head lifts fully. She pushes herself to her feet. Hears the distant calls of “Philip!” Each recitation of her son’s name driving her heart faster and faster in her chest.

She reaches for the door, and she rushes out.

She wishes she had had more time.

But when she reaches the ground floor, she sees them all together. The bankers, her father, Angelica, her children—all seven—assembled in the parlor. Door to the basement cracked open just a little. The children liked to play down there from time to time. But their play has been interrupted. Philip is on the ground, shaking badly. Limbs thrashing in such a spell. Eyes rolled back in his head. Mouth frothing slightly.

Eliza’s hand presses to her lips, and she leans against the doorway. _No,_ she thinks. _No. Not little Phil…_

But it’s too late. The plague has come to the Grange. And for the second time in as many years, she feels helpless.

 

***

 

The physicians confirm what Eliza already knows. Little Phil is sick. They lift his tiny body from the floor and place it in Eliza’s bed, far from the other children who are quickly bundled up and hurried from the home. The bankers cover their mouths with handkerchiefs and flee the structure. Will bathe in the river before bringing the traces of illness with them.

Father promises to return once he’s secured the children at his estate in Albany. Eliza kisses her daughters, begs Angie and Junior to look after their younger siblings. Both children nod and take up their brothers and sister’s hands. Promise that they will be good. Even as they fearfully look toward Little Phil, still curled up against Eliza’s breast. Unmoving and barely breathing.

The plague moves swiftly. Latching itself on men, women, and children alike. There are none left safe from its grasp. Physicians and healers flocked to the city to tend to the ill, but their poultices amount to nothing. Their tincture are useless. The plague takes all that it touches, and it takes slowly. Shaking the bodies until they cannot breathe. Rattling the hearts until they do not beat. It burns with a fever in waves. It blinds and chokes. Deafens and weakens. Until the body simply passes away in the night, giving up ghosts for the gods to sort through.

Eliza squeezes her hands together. Angelica at her side. They watch as Philip’s body is moved and manipulated. Turned this way and that. Adjusted and changed. Salves are placed on his brow. Under his nose. Liquid is poured down his throat. He doesn’t wake. Sleep holding him so tight Eliza fears she will never hear his precious voice again.

“Is there truly no cure?” Angelica asks softly. She wraps an arm around Eliza’s shoulders, and the physician finishes drawing a blanket up to Philip’s chin.

The man straightens himself up to his full height and peers down his nose at them. “You are...the Widow Hamilton, correct?” he asks slowly, as though he does not already know the answer to his question. As though this house hasn’t been marred and mocked, praised and held up as the pinnacle of town gossip.

Eliza entertains the idea of climbing to the top of a table herself. Glaring down at the physician and asking why her name or status should mean a thing. Her son lay ill on her bed, and he wished to exchange pleasantries. Or rather, he wished to see what he could extort from her. Instead, she dips her head demurely. “I am,” she tells him. A proper widow. A proper wife.

The man rubs his beard thoughtfully. “There is no cure,” he tells her. She is one year younger, sobbing at her husband’s death bed. She is four years younger, begging for her first born to survive this. She is here and now, and she has been here before. The tears won’t come. She saves them for the private moments when she’s alone and can bear to be weak. “However,” he pauses. Flicks his eyes toward Angelica, as if he knows the next words he speak will be considered foul and wrong. “A woman of your...financial security,” she longs to laugh at that, “may find other ways to alleviate your son’s ailments.”

“You charleton _hack!”_ Angelica hisses. She stands abruptly. Strides across the room and lifts one hand. Intention clear. The man steps backward. Bowing his head.

“I mean no offence my lady, but money does have influence in the world.”

“You would hold my sister’s child hostage? His health a prisoner to your greed? You would rule yourself through avarice, you disgrace?!” Angelica has never shied away from speaking her mind. Has never flinched back from high society and all its social imperfections. Eliza envies her strength of will. Her fortitude.

Little Phil lets out a mewling sound, and Eliza falters. Abandoning her seat to kneel at his side. Resting a hand to his dark hair and praying instinctively for his survival. _It’s too much. Please. It’s too much._

The physician starts making excuses. Starts sputtering and attempting to explain, but Angelica will hear nothing of it. Continues to badger him. Insult him. Threaten him with legal action. “As you said, she is the Widow Hamilton, and if you believe that we will not take this to the President himself...” Angelica trails off threateningly. Eliza almost laughs. Hysterical at the mere _idea_ that President Jefferson would entertain her an audience. Though she’d never held any ill will toward him or his administration, he loathed her husband with a passion and the feeling had been enitrely mutual.

Eliza couldn’t imagine a world where Jefferson would bend his neck to her. Would hear her cries, and offer restitution. Oh, certainly Angelica and Jefferson were friends. But friendship in politics only serves you so far. Eliza has no delusions Jefferson would help her child.

But the threat works. The physician hastens to correct his narrative, “I meant only that the cost for such medicine is high, not that I would defraud the good madame.” Eliza yearns to speak up. To ask the man to state plainly what his intentions are. Angelica intercedes on her behalf.

“You will inform us forthwith, or I will call for the soldiers to come.” Now _that_ is a threat Eliza can have faith in. Alexander’s comrades in arms, his beloved soldiers, had never lost faith in him. Should she call for their aid, they would come to assist. Would even stand out front and bar the bankers entry should she desire it.

“Griffons, my lady,” the physician reveals. “Griffons are said to shed feathers that can cure blindness, talons that can cure any illness. Should the lady have the funds for such an expedition, these tokens could save the boy’s life.”

Little Phil’s brown eyes move beneath his lids. They peak out. Just barely visible. Wet and tragic. Eliza tries to smile for her boy. Tries to encourage him. He’s going to be all right. He is. Phil’s eyes close once more. His breaths sound so ragged.

Acting as Eliza’s spokesperson, Angelica plows forward. Undaunted and undeterred. “Griffons haven’t lived in these parts in hundreds of years.” Not since the first settlers came. Not since the land had been swept back and the natives retreated into the forest. Eliza’s heard stories of griffons. Occasionally will see feathers on sale at the market, but Alexander used to laugh. Call them eagle feathers. Tell her that no griffon would be so careless. Nor hunter so reckless.

The physician swallows thickly. Looks nervously between Eliza and her sister. “There’s a nest near the Carolina long lakes. Many men have died attempting to retrieve its goods.”

“It’s sacrilege to harm a griffon in its nest,” Eliza whispers. Alexander met a griffon during the war. Riding through the night from camp to camp. Desperate to pass along messages for the general. He’d ridden straight into a griffon’s nesting ground, had nearly been torn apart once he attempted to correct the mistake.

Three long scars ran about his arm brutally for the rest of his life. Never quite healing. _“Beware the griffons, Betsey,”_ he warned as she traced the wound. He’d spoken with such respect for the beasts. _“They are fierce and protective. They are not to be bothered.”_ Such open admiration for their strength and power. _“Interfere with them or their nests...and you’ll be cursed.”_ Eliza often wonders if Alexander had been cursed. If his life had been cursed from the moment he’d left that nest. Fated to die young, to live a harsh life and fizzle out like a candle in the rain.

“Sacrilege or not, those goods could heal a great many persons,” the physician snaps back at her.

“And turn you quite the profit in return, I am certain,” Angelica hisses. Sharp as a viper. “You are free to leave, good sir. We shan’t trouble you any longer. Begone!” Huffing, the man marches from Eliza’s home. Slamming the Grange’s front door in such a manner as to earn a stern rebuke from a passerby on the street. Eliza can just hear the chastisement through her bedroom window.

Looking down at her son, she holds his hand tight. Traces her thumb along the back of his knuckles. She tries to think. Needs to think. _What would Alexander do?_ She is the leader of this household now. She is the Window Hamilton, and she must make this decision.

Her sister sits on the other side of Phil. The bed dips beneath her. “You should be wary not to catch it as well,” Eliza warns once for good measure. As expected, she is ignored. Still, Angelica should not be here. Should not sit so close. She has children of her own, and a husband besides. A family that need her and cannot risk her death unnecessarily. Little Phil has only Eliza. There is no one else for him but her.

Her sweet boy, small and frail, lying there as pale as winter’s snow. Black hair limp and tangled. Breath hitching tragically as he sleeps. Coughing as he shifts on the bed. Were she someone else, she would have solved this conundrum. Come to the answer she’s certain is right before her.

For weeks she’s kept an ear to the ground. Listened and tried to understand the plague and all its complexities. With weeks to study an illness, Alexander have known how to treat it and what methodology she should apply. He’d have done more than give their son a bath and watch as he dies. Would do more than listen to old men rattle off useless information regarding griffons and the vague notion a griffon could help.

Angelica shakes her head. She’s a stubborn woman, and Eliza is so grateful for her. So unbearably grateful. “I can have John go,” Angelica suggests softly. For a moment, Eliza’s not certain where Angelica intends to send her husband. She asks for clarification, and Angelica sighs. “To the long lakes. In search of the griffons.”

“To what end?” Eliza asks. “To die like all the other hunters? To be turned away?”

No. Eliza has seen what losing a husband and father will do to a family. Angelica deserves John in her life. No matter how boring she may find him at times. “If no modern medicine will save little Phil, should we not try our true medicines? Our beasts and their lore have always saved us in times of need. It is not unreasonable to think that this may work.”

No. It’s not. Eliza directs her attention to her son. She bites her lip. Tries to think. Alexander has books on beasts. _The American Bestiary_ , she believes it’s called. He referenced it on his travels. Usually taking it and a tome on herbology with him. _“Always be prepared Betsey, you’ll never know when you must entertain a selkie or address a poisoned stew!”_ She’d laughed at his enthusiasm. Now, she’s merely grateful she’d not done away with any of his documents or libraries.

Angelica is still talking, providing examples and reasons. Structuring her argument so Eliza will listen. Will follow her advice and entertain the idea of sending John Church, small little noble lord John Church, to fight against the griffons and steal their feathers and talons. John Church avoided battle during the war, he simpered behind a desk and quaked in the face of his far more boisterous and well spoken wife. Angelica managed him like Alexander managed politics. Sometimes with skillful words and temperance, and most other times with raging fits of passion that forced their opponents to behave.

John Church against a griffon? Laughable at best.

And it would take too long. By the time John acquired the goods, if he even made it that far, he would not be able to return in time to save Phil. By then her son will have expired, and the trip will have been for naught. John would need to take Phil with him, and Eliza would never be able to see her son go and not attend as well. Not be there for him, to hold him when he takes his final breaths, no matter how tragic. Not be able to give him one last moment of love. The final thing that her husband and firstborn both received as they died against her heart.

At least they both knew that heart beat for them, and would continue to do so long after they parted.

She would not let Phil leave this earth without her at his side. She refused to allow it.

“I’ll go,” she whispers. The idea slides into place as quick and as viscerally as a firebrand. It scorches through her body. Sealing her fate, committing her to her cause. Kissing Phil’s brow, she stands.

Angelica is staring at her. Mouth falling open in stunned apprehension. She’s frozen in time. Watching as Eliza walks to her closet and retrieves a satchel. She will need food and water to start her journey. Riding clothes for both her and Phil. Warm blankets and money to replenish their supplies with.

Her mind is whirling. _Is this what Alexander felt?_ She wonders, as she collects her things. _When his brain conjured notions all else considered strange? When he saw the path to his future, and took it?_ Eliza begs his forgiveness. A year after death and she’s finally understanding parts of the man she loved that she’d never understood before.

“You cannot mean to travel to this nest on your own?” Angelica asks. The clarification does nothing but bolster Eliza’s intentions. She lifts her arms and starts unbuttoning her dress. Letting it slide from her body and onto the floor. She secures leggings she rarely wears, and one of Alexander’s blouses, upon her frame. A jacket goes next. By now, Angelica is on her feet. “Elizabeth, my dear sister, you—”

“I will save my son’s life,” Eliza tells Angelica firmly. She turns. Drawing her back up straight. She is a Hamilton. She will always be a Hamilton. And she will not bend. “I will save my son’s life, and I will secure my home, and my children and I will live here as we are meant to live here, and _no one else_ is going to die.” Not so long as her chest draws air.

She will not lose one more thing she cherishes. She _refuses_.  "You have other children," Angelica says softly. The words sting. They slap across her face with the same brutal force as the smack she’d assumed the physician would receive. Eliza clenches her teeth. Forces all of her fury into her eyes and stares at her sister until Angelica startles. Shakes her head and apologizes. "You misunderstand," she excuses. "I meant only that you have other children under your care. Ones who equally need their mother."

"Ones," Eliza reminds,  "who will survive quite well under their beloved Aunt's care.” She is a tree. Unbent. Unbroken. Unmovable. “Ones who even now are traveling to Albany to escape illness. I shan’t see them even if I stay here with Phil. And...should I stay with Phil I am not long for this world either. I will catch the plague same as he. I can either die here in this home having done nothing, or I can find the griffons and save my son.”

Angelica doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, so Eliza says it for her. “So long as there is breath in my body, I will not allow another to dictate my life story.” Drawing herself up as high as she could go, imagining herself standing on a table of her own, Eliza makes her point clear, “I am the Widow Hamilton, and I will not allow tragedy to rule my life. Philip will not die.”

For the first time in her life, Eliza believes she’s rendered her sister speechless.

It’s a good feeling indeed.

 


	2. Holly

Alexander’s warhorse had been a strong mare named Holly. A great chestnut girl who raced headlong into battle, carrying Alexander onwards into the fray just as surely as she brought him from camp to camp. With scant few minutes to actually write Eliza during the war, Alexander generally kept his letters closer to sweet love notes. Praising her for her beauty, or chastising her for not writing him enough. And while he did not always mention Holly, when he did—Eliza’s heart sang. 

She’d been so grateful that he had a horse who tended to him so well. Who didn’t startle when the guns were firing. Who didn’t rear up or misbehave. Holly had been raised in battle, and Alexander had treated her with all the tender care of a lover. Rubbing her down each night, obsessively checking and cleaning her saddle. Addressing any sore spots and resting her when she went lame. 

After the war, Alexander introduced them. Eliza stroked her dark hair. Braided her mane. Thanked Holly for her service. Scars lined Holly’s flanks, and Eliza bit her lip to keep from exclaiming at each injury. From imagining how the injuries were received and how close Alexander came to death time and time again. 

Holly’s old now. Outliving her brave soldier and spending the later parts of her life in relative luxury. She’d soldiered through two wars and served as Alexander’s steed on so many of his showier displays. She deserved to live out her retirement in peace. A proud member of an elite rank of soldiers. 

There’d been a painter, Eliza couldn’t remember his name (John something most likely. Everyone was always named John), who wanted to paint Alexander and his steed. Who wanted to paint a great triumphant war hero returning from battle. When the man discovered the horse Alexander intended to use for his portrait was Holly, he’d hastily attempted to secure a younger one. A great stallion, perhaps. Or even a gelding if Alexander would prefer. 

Alexander did not prefer. 

He flatly refused all work. Unless Holly was in the painting, then he’d not commission a thing from the man.  _ “She’s the greatest horse you will ever know,”  _ Alexander insisted.  _ “I shan’t dismiss her merely because she’s turned old. We all age, and I’d have accomplished nothing without her by my side.” _

Holly huffed at Eliza when she enters the stable. Walks toward her with slow, measured steps. Even after the servants had been dismissed along with the various geldings and colts that’d been a part of their stable for the children, Eliza could not dismiss Holly. She’s still tended to with the gentle care and consideration of any member of her family. 

She’s the only horse Eliza has now. “Hello, my dear,” she greets softly. Licking her lips, she lifts a hand and places it on Holly’s muzzle. Holly lowers her head and allows Eliza to scratch her nose. Even at twenty-eight years old, Holly is mild mannered and steady on her feet. 

Eliza checks her legs, her back. She presses her hands along Holly’s spine. Tries to mimic what she’d seen Alexander do hundreds of times. Holly twists her head to watch Eliza, but doesn’t otherwise complain. Not even when Eliza comes to rest before the scars along her flank. Where Holly’s last run in with a griffon led to her being brutally marred. “Alexander tore his arm beating that griffon from you,” she murmurs softly. Tracing her hand along Holly’s rump. 

Holly whinnies at her. Puffing hot air from her nostrils. Stamping at the ground with her hoof. Eliza smiles. Pets her with a firm hand. Expression turning slightly more serious, she turns to stand in front of Holly. Cups her great face between her palms. Eliza’s small hands only make up a third of Holly’s cheek on each side. Licking her lips, she takes a deep breath. 

“My son is ill,” she starts softly. “I know you are old, and you deserve your retirement. I know I am not Alexander, but I need your help. You’re all I have...all I can afford...and I need to get to the long lakes. There’s a griffon nest that may have the cure to Phil’s illness. Will you help me?” Holly blows a breath of air into Eliza’s face. Fluttering her bangs from her eyes. She squeezes her eyes shut. Lets the air stop. Feels her hair settle back where it belongs. 

Good enough. 

Reaching for the bridle, she secures it on Holly’s face. Attaches the lead rope and then walks her to the hall. Tying her to the cross ties. Alexander always brushed her down before a long ride, and so Eliza starts now. Searching for the curry comb and getting to work. She digs the comb over along Holly’s back. Circling her hand in small clusters kicking the dirt off. 

Holly’s head hangs down and she dozes while Eliza works. Geriatric and quite happy to fall asleep standing up. Eliza doesn’t mind. Just focuses on her task. Refusing to overthink her predicament or to give into the errant thoughts telling her how foolish she’s being. 

Angelica had spent the better portion of the past hour attempting to talk her out of this. Suggesting that they hire a team. Anyone. Someone with military training or expertise. But Eliza held fast. She recalled the stories Alexander told her. Confirmed her suspicions when she read the  _ Bestiary.  _

Griffons will attack any party of more than five who enter the outskirts of their territory. Soldiers and hunters alike were torn down by merely exhibiting the intent to kill or disrupt their territory. They scented fear and they were brutal against those who bothered them. Alexander only managed to survive his encounter because he’d truly stumbled upon them. They’d not known he was there, and  _ he’d  _ not known he was there, until they were all on top of each other in a panicked mess. 

A team of reckless soldiers would no doubt be destroyed by the griffons. And she could not allow her own terror to obscure her intentions. She didn’t need to kill the griffon. She just needed to get close enough to collect a few feathers. Find some talon shavings near its scratching trees. Both cast offs she could use to help Phil. 

“I won’t even be in any danger,” she reminds herself for the twelfth time that day. Perhaps she won’t even  _ see  _ the beast. Perhaps she’ll merely find the nest while it was out hunting. Holly huffs loudly. “I didn’t think so either,” Eliza sighs. Luck, she has learned, is rarely on her side. 

Fetching her husband’s saddle, she attempts to hoist it from its rack. Her arms quake under the great weight. Pushing her down into the earth. She heaves. Pulling with all her strength. “I’ve…” she grits out, “Carried... _ eight  _ children...you...terrible... _ thing. _ ” Up it goes, dislodging from its peg and sending her her stumbling a few steps backward. Regaining her footing, she turns to Holly. “And I…” She walks to the mare and lifts as high as her arms can lift. Alexander’s saddle hanging awful and heavy from her fingers. “... _ Can  _ carry you.” 

She grunts indelicately. Struggles to get it up. Just a little more...just a little—Holly’s hooves dance a little. Irritation flickering in her expressive brown eyes as she twists her head toward her. The saddle is physically  _ on  _ Holly’s back, but the stirrup is tucked under it and not settled correctly at all. “Just stay still,” Eliza orders Holly, walking around the mare to fix it on the other side. 

_ No wait, _ she’s missed a step. She sees the mistake almost immediately. As soon as she fixes the stirrup, she blinks at the saddle sitting on Holly’s naked back. She forgot the saddle blanket. Rubbing the back of her hand along her brow, she takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she mumbles. “Okay.”

Reaching up, she pulls the saddle off Holly’s body. Grunting loudly as it slips from her fingers and strikes the ground. Dirt stains the leather paneling, and Eliza glares at it. Fights the temptation to yell at the awful thing, to kick it out of spite. Marching back to the tack room, she snatches the blanket meant to protect Holly’s back from the rough rubbing of the saddle. 

Layering it along Holly’s body, she practically  _ feels  _ Holly’s approval. The horse all but snickering at her as she goes to retrieve the saddle from the ground. “You laugh, but you must bear it,” Eliza warns. Holly is impervious to her threats. Just stands patiently and pretends to be invested in her ministrations. 

Bending her knees, Eliza draws in a deep breath. She gets her hands into position, this time ensuring that the far sirrup was hooked over the pommel for when she moved it over the horse’s back, and  _ lifts _ . Her thighs burn as she hoists the saddle upwards, but she carries the momentum with her. Gasping as she lifts the saddle up, up, up— and it’s over. Settling onto Holly’s back and resting patiently for her to adjust it. 

She has sweat slipping down her face. Dripping over her nose. She rubs her face on her sleeve. It’s impolite and indecent, but she knows full well that there’s no time for proprietary while they’re on the road. 

As quick as she can, she buckles the saddle into position. Loops the leather lines where they should be. Cinches it tight. She hasn’t ridden in quite some time, and typically will ride side saddle when she does. She’d sold  _ her _ saddle some time ago. And in any case, riding as such would not be appropriate for how far she needs to go. 

Once Holly is settled and ready, Eliza pats her neck. “I’ll be back,” she murmurs, then retreats back into her house. 

Angelica is frantically pacing when she steps in through the front door. Her bags are packed and ready to travel with. They’d just need to loop it over Holly’s rump and they’ll be fine. Philip can settle in front of Eliza as they ride. His small body easily fitting in with Eliza’s in the saddle. Alexander’s has always been too big for her. It’s fine. It works well for the two of them. 

“Don’t do this,” Angelica requests. “Please, there are other ways. This is a rash decision, and you have no idea what’s out there.” 

“I’ll be bringing the  _ Bestiary  _ and  _ Herbalism  _ with me,” Eliza tells her. She lifts the two books as evidence, sliding them into the top of her satchel. Angelica scowls at her. Presses her lips together and actually glares. 

“You will die, you understand that don’t you?” she asks. 

“I will die no matter what. And when I do, I shall join my Alexander.” Eliza knows the words break her sister’s heart. Knows that they hurt her in a way that is unfair and inappropriate. Angelica lifts her fingers to her mouth and takes half a step back. But Eliza holds on. This is the only excuse that works with Angelica. The only one that matters. “Kiss me goodbye, sister. For either I will die here with Philip from plague, or I will die trying to save him. But I will not survive this illness.” 

Angelica rushes forward. She wraps her arms around Eliza’s body and holds her close. She presses a hand to the back of Eliza’s head. Pulls Eliza’s brow to her shoulder and she sobs loud and un-lady-like. “I have just lost my dear brother, and now you shall rid me of you as well? You horrible child!” Angelica wails. Eliza feels her eyes starting to burn, but it doesn’t nothing to weaken her resolve. Her mind has been made up. 

“Will you pray for me, Angelica?” she asks instead. Angelica promises she will. “And the childr—”

“—Shall want for nothing. You must promise to send me updates when you can. I shall receive them here, and should the plague force us to leave, Albany.” 

“I promise.” If Alexander can manage to pen letters in the midst of a war, Eliza can manage on a relatively safe ride to the long lakes. The only danger should come from the griffon, who may or may not even be there. 

She’ll need to find food and lodging, made more difficult by Philip’s fragile health. No one could know that he’d been infected. The Governor had already put a ban on travel for the infirm. Some cities had even locked their doors to travelers in hopes of keeping the plague at bay. 

Eliza will manage. Somehow, someway, she will manage. “Do not sell my home,” she makes Angelica promise. Angelica nods. “It will stay with the Hamiltons until they chose for it to leave their hands.” 

Alexander had made her promise to update her will after his death, and she’d done so not long after the funeral. She’d sat in front of a solicitor and she’d spelled out her affairs. Alexander’s folded paperwork set before her as a template. She divided the estate as best she could. Putting aside simple things that she could manage. Some dresses for Angie and Lizzie. Alexander’s war uniform for Junior. The library for all of them. 

Her affairs are, fortuitously, already in order. She has nothing more to fear. 

Kissing her sister’s cheek, she goes to the couch and lifts her young son into her arms. She holds his body against her own. His fevered brow rests against her chest. Carrying him to the horse, she listens as Angelica follows behind. Bringing her saddlebags with her. Together, they finish preparing Holly for the journey. They put her bridle on and adjust her reins. And Angelica holds onto Phil as Eliza pulls herself onto Holly’s back. Once Eliza’s settled, Angelica passes Phil up to her. 

Eliza wraps her son up carefully. Gets him into a comfortable position. Her feet feel awkward in their stirrups. She takes a deep breath.  _ I can do this _ .  _ I am the leader of my household. I can do this.  _ Angelica stares up at her with such wide eyes. She’s looking at Eliza as though they will never meet again, and Eliza has to steady her breath, because that might very well be the case. 

She looks down at her sister. Memorizes her jawline. Her eyes. Her curly hair. She’s a beautiful woman. All their lives, Angelica has served as inspiration. The bold sister. The one everyone notices. The best dancer. The best dresser. The lady of the courts who charms paupers and princes alike. She’s their father’s favorite. The one who married well, who brings their family honor every day. 

Sometimes she’s so mystified by the idea that between the two of them, Alexander chose  _ her.  _ Chose Eliza Schuyler and not her far more capable sister. They were always the closest of friends besides, but Eliza struggles to come to terms with that at the end. Angelica is the woman of every man’s dream. The one who always makes the right decisions. The best decisions.  

She’s never doubted her place in the world. Where Eliza cannot seem to know what or where to go. Always chasing after Angelica for guidance. Never the sassy tomboy that their sister Peggy had been. Never the dove of the ball. 

“I will see you again,” Eliza promises Angelica. In this life or the next. They will meet again. Angelica’s smile is brittle. She nods her head at them and steps away from Holly’s side. Gathering the reins, Eliza takes a deep breath and clicks her tongue. 

Alexander’s great warhorse gives a mighty fart, tail lifting as she passes gas, and then starts slowly walking out of the stable.

* * *

 

Holly is a smooth walker. She keeps her head down and just slowly moves her legs forward. One right after another. Eliza keeps her arm around Phil’s body. Guiding Holly with one hand while the other keeps the boy steady. He hasn’t woken up really. Sometimes he mewls in his sleep. Sometimes his little limbs twitch, but he doesn’t wake. 

Eliza tries to think about the last time she saw him. Tries to remember what he’d been doing. Playing with his siblings, she thinks. Angie and Junior usually helped the little ones dress. Then they took them down to lessons. Angie had been leading ‘class’ in needlepoint. Eliza remembers seeing Phil sitting on Angie’s lap. Little hands latched around her own as she moved a needle in and out of fabric. Writing letters into her sheets. Stitching flowers into corners. 

The plague came quickly. No one knew how or when it arrived. It started months ago. Just after Alexander died. The doctors came in. They struggled to determine what caused the sickness. Struggled to fix the symptoms. And then they too began to die. Instantaneous. Just like their victims. One day they worked to tend to their patients, the next they lay in bed besides them. 

Eliza bends her head and kisses her son’s head. She urges Holly onwards. Riding well into dark. They live almost eight hundred miles from the long lakes. To get there, first she will need to cross the river to New Jersey. They’ll need to travel south along the ocean for almost two weeks. Down past Pennsylvania, past Virginia. Into the deep south. She hasn’t been that far south once in her life. Holly’s slow steps keep plodding forward. 

“You must think me mad,” Eliza murmurs softly. Holly’s ears flicking back to listen to her. One staying aimed in her direction while the other returns to the front. Attention divided between their road and her voice. “I’m not mad,” Eliza continues. She’s talking to a horse, riding with her child to a griffon’s nest on the off chance that they will survive and not be killed by plague. But she’s not mad. 

Holly continues walking. Careless of her words. Eliza wonders what great sights Holly’s seen in her life. Oh, Eliza’s heard the stories. Listened to Alexander tell tales of battle. Gallant and brave. He and his soldiers riding with their guns firing and their swords raised to the air. Lafayette had teasingly informed Eliza that her husband had been the bravest of them all, for only Alexander dared to challenge the General on his orders. Only Alexander dared to brave the wilds. 

“Was the griffon large?” Eliza asks Holly. Holly huffs. Takes a particularly long stride, rump shifting about as evidence. The scars are hidden by the saddle bags. “What was it like?” she imagines. 

She’s seen the paintings of griffons in the hall. Seen the salamanders and the vipers. Seen how fearful the soldiers were about antagonizing the beasts. Their society lives in harmony with the beasts. Always nervous and uncertain around them. It seems every day there’s a death in the water, sirens pulling sad sailors to their graves, selkies making off with hapless children. 

The city watch patrol the sidewalks, and warn the people about venturing after dark. There are phantoms in the dark. Ghosts that walk the land. It’s unsafe to travel across battlefields. Soldiers re-enact the wars long after death. 

Eliza has a vague memory of battles, but there are thousands of violent deaths that occurred between New York and the Carolinas. She knows she’s incapable of avoiding all of them. Holly keeps pushing forwards. Making good time as they cross the river. They pass a few carts. Some women look out and stare at her, eyes wide and incredulous. 

She cannot bring herself to care. She has spent each day of the past year wearing a mourning dress. She has no capacity left to care about how she looks. She  _ knows  _ how she looks. Ragged and plain. Adornments and baubles left behind her. 

Still, when she guides Holly off the main road and keeps to the quiet trails leading south, she’s far happier. Travelling alone and without the prying eyes of those with ill intentions, it’s gives her time to let her mind wander. Let her thoughts spin round and round. 

She feels like her brain is an ouroboros. Endless and cannibalistic. Chewing their own tails in a desire to find some truth to anything. Philip mewls eventually. Eyes opening and staring up at him. Fevered and delirious. 

“It’s all right, little Phil,” she coos to him. “It’s all right.” He cries out, though. Limbs starting to shake badly. 

Holly slows to a stop. Head turning to look back at them. Huffing air as she lifts her feet in place. She doesn’t know what to do. Eliza doesn’t either. She knots her reins as best she can. Keeps ‘woahing’ Holly as she can adjust her hold on Phil. struggling to balance him as he thrashes. Coughing and wheezing. 

His tiny arms and legs flail in all directions. Martha Washington had once spoken to her about the shaking illness. How her dear Patsy suffered from the tremors. How they feared Patsy would bite her tongue. Would drown in her own blood. Eliza pulls a stretch of fabric from her pocket. Slides it between her son’s teeth, and holds him as best she can. 

Holly shifts uncomfortably. Standing still, but not pleased with stopping. With the laden weight now wriggling so badly upon her back. Philip cries out unconsciously. He lifts his tiny hands to the air. He gasps desperately for breath. There are fat tears streaming down his eyes. 

“Hush...hush...baby...hush...it’s all right. It’s all right.” Eliza tries to settle him. Desperate. Frantic. She can feel Holly growing more and more unhappy the longer they stay here. She tries to adjust her wait to accomodate Holly’s discomfort, but with Philip thrashing, she’s not sure she’s going to be able to manage both the horse and him at one time. 

_ I shouldn’t have left.  _ The words circle about on repeat. They go from start to finish, wrapping around her brain and sliding down her back. She gasps. She recoils away from the thought. What had she been thinking, it’s barely been ten miles. She’s hardly even started her journey and her son needed care and attention and—

The shaking stops. 

The shaking stops, and Eliza sobs. Pulling him closer and feeling his breaths against her throat. She hugs him tight and close. Retakes her reins and pushes Holly onwards. Philip doesn’t wake again. Doesn’t gesture. Doesn’t do anything. Just sleeps within her grasp.  _ This is going to happen,  _ she reminds herself. “It’s either here or at home,” she speaks out loud. Giving the terror a voice. Sounding out the words so they don’t meld together. So they don’t become useless. 

They walk on. The sun falls just as Eliza reaches a small tavern. Lodging that will be safe for her and Philip for the night. She stops Holly by the small stable set up for travelers. A boy comes and asks if she’d like to board. “Please...and how much for care?” she asks, looking at Holly’s drooping face. The old horse has walked farther now than she has in years, and the strain has not been kind to her. She’s exhausted. 

“A penny, miss,” the stable boy tells her. She fishes the coin from her pocket and hands it to her. Then carefully hugs Phil. Leans forward to steady herself, and then swing her leg over the saddle. Her legs almost crumple beneath her. She stumbles badly. The stable boy hurries to reach out. Brace her and keep her steady. 

She clings Phil tight, anxiety curling deep within her. It’s okay, she reminds herself. It’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay and Phil’s okay, and they’re okay. She eyes her saddlebags nervously. Looking between them and Phil. She can only take one. The stable boy seems to notice her predicament. He bite his lip, casting his gaze between her and her supplies. 

“If...you don’t mind waiting miss, I can help assist you with your bags?” he asks her carefully. 

She feels some of the anxiety lessen as she adjusts her hold on Phil. “Please,” she asks. Trying not to feel as though she’s risking his poor boy’s health just by letting him tend to them all. Still, the boy is quick about his work. He hurries to move Holly into a stall and starts addressing her care. Eliza strokes Holly’s muzzle as he works. Removing a stray leaf that tangled in her mane. 

Once finished, the boy retrieves her bags and follows her inside the tavern. He calls for the owner to come meet her, an a portly man does just that. Wiping his hands on a towel he approaches. Eyeing Eliza up and down. “Wha’ kin I do ya for missus?” 

“Just a room for the night, and lodging for my horse. I’ll be gone by morning.” The man nods. “Most rooms’ve been rented tonigh’, missus, but there’s two open if you don’ mind sharin’. One’s...with a gentleman, an’ another’s wit’ a lady such as yerself. Kid ‘n all.” 

Eliza hesitates. Logic dictates the safer option is, of course, the room with the woman. However, Phil’s illness...she’d be horrified to learn he’d somehow infected a child and mother. She’s already afflicted by this. She doesn’t want to wish this on any other. 

The innkeep nods his chin toward the man in the corner. “There’s yer boarder.” Following his gaze, Eliza tries to hold back her distaste. The man’s leering her way. Licking his lips obscenely. Food and drink have tangled his beard. Coating it in a greasy finish. Flinching away from there mere thought of spending a night in close quarters with such a man, she forces a smile. 

“The lady, if you please.” 

Nodding his head, he barks for the stable boy to lead her to her room. Outside, she can see the the sun finally set beneath the hills. Already the night starts filling with spooks and howls. Philip doesn’t wake. Just stays dozing against her. Looking to all the world like any other child made tired from a long journey. 

The stable boy chatters as he leads her forward. Adjusting her saddlebags occasionally. Huffing as he slides them further up his shoulder. When they reach the door, he knocks twice and waits for a response. “Come in,” a low voice beckons. 

Nodding to Eliza, the boy pushes open the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but you’ve a roommate for tonight. S’another lady ‘n her bairn.” 

“That’s...fine,” the woman intones. With that acceptance, Eliza rounds the bend and enters the room fully. Philip slips a little, and she’s distracted enough to look away. Toward her son’s face as she secures him more fiercely. The boy deposits her bags on the ground and bids them farewell. 

When she finally does look up to see her roommate, she freezes in place. Eyes wide and mouth falling open. She stares at the woman. Horror coating her body and soul.  _ This,  _ she thinks,  _ is a joke. A cruel joke.  _

Perhaps their family really is cursed. 

There, sitting across from her, resting with her back against the headboard of the farthest bed in the room, is Maria Reynolds. 

And she looks just as shocked to see her. 


	3. Maria

Alexander used to write Eliza the most beautiful letters. He’d rhapsodize on his love for her. He’d call her the sweetest names. He’d wish her the world. Every happiness. He wrote her once, describing their first born. Calling their son the most unimaginably beautiful child to ever grace the earth, whose only fault is that he smiles too much. 

In each and every one of those letters, Alexander failed to mention that he’d also had an affair with one Maria Reynolds. He neglected to point out that for two very long years, he joyfully found himself in another woman’s bed. He longed for the embrace of a woman who would eventually blackmail and ruin him. Who took joy in destroying their lives. Who laughed in the face of all of their agony, gleeful for the chance to destroy the happy fantasy she’d woven about herself. 

Maria Reynolds had been a young girl. Twenty-three then. She must be...what...thirty-seven now? She’s a woman in her own right. And there’s a girl beside her. Perhaps less of a  _ girl  _ and more of a...young woman. Old enough to be considered an adult on her own, that was for certain. Eliza  _ had  _ known Maria had a daughter. A daughter near Angie’s age, in fact. But the information had honestly not remained in Eliza’s thoughts for long. She’d done her best to ignore Maria even existed, let alone what her family situation was like. 

She’s aged...well, Eliza supposes. Dark hair curling about her face. Pulled back in a tight wrap. She has lines under her eyes. Dark and meaningful. Her cheekbones protrude from her face. Her nose is acceptable. Eliza wishes she could find fault in Maria’s appearance, either too pretty or too hideous, but Maria is simply plain. Plain and tragically normal. 

Eliza hugs Philip closer. She should go. 

“...Mrs. Hamilton,” Maria intones slowly. She licks her lips uncomfortably. Standing up, Maraia rubs her palms along her thighs. Clad in breeches same as Eliza. Will wonders never cease. Eliza hesitates. Doesn’t move to approach or get near. Eager to keep distance between them both. Trying desperately to will her mind into functioning of some kind. 

_ Words. _ How hard can it be to form  _ words? _ “Mrs. Reynolds,” Eliza forces out. She glances toward the door. Perhaps she and Philip could risk the night. Holly is used to traveling in the dark. Alexander praised her endlessly for it. He had been the only one on the General’s staff willing to traverse the wicked space between dusk and dawn. The only one who dared the demons and the wraiths so he could deliver the most timely of letters. 

Holly has no fear of the dark, and thus far she’s born them well. They could try to make it to the next inn. Try to risk the night. “Maria,” the young interloper corrects awkwardly. “If it pleases you...my name is  _ Maria _ .” She slurs some of the words together, her ‘you’ is too short.  Eliza can’t remember where she came from originally.  Southern New York?  Maybe by the tip?  She doesn’t care. 

“Ah. I had heard of your divorce to Mr. Reynolds. A pity.” She’s being cruel. Nasty. Maria winces, lips twisting into grimace. Eliza takes a deep breath. Lets it out. “I apologize...my tone is...not the best.” After the day she’s had, the urgency with which she left her home, the last person she had any desire to see is Maria Reynolds. 

No. That’s not true. 

She’s quite certain that all of her good manners and well behaved habits will be entirely set to the side in the face of Aaron Burr. She would gladly strike the man if she were able. Perhaps even take up her husband’s pistol and fire the shot he  _ should  _ have fired into Aaron’s side the year before. 

Philip whines. A keening noise that distracts her from Maria. Makes her step back. Slide herself into a corner and hold her child to her heart. Maria watches her the whole while, dark eyes peering toward her. Assessing. Judging. “He’s sick,” she whispers softly. 

“I can leave,” Eliza replies. She’s already mapping out their exist. Already factoring in how many hours she can physically stay awake and how much stress Holly can take. 

But Maria is shaking her head. She’s turning on her heel. Walking to a satchel that’s resting on the ground. “No,” she tells Eliza softly. “No, it’s fine. Susan…” she glances toward her daughter. Still sleeping and not once aware of the confrontation that’s brewing so hot beneath the surface. “Susan is as well.” 

Eliza can’t help it. She feels grief welling up within her. This is the world that they live in. A world where mothers watch their children die as their husbands abandon them. Either to death or disloyalty. She curls around her son. Pulls him in as tight as she can and breathes in the smell of his body. 

Fever heat warms her brow. Wet breath ghosts across her cheek. She tries to pull back a sob. This is the woman he husband found more desireable that her. She will  _ not  _ cry in front of her. She will  _ not  _ allow it. Swallowing back every vile thought, every cry for vengeance, every emotion that was not simple chaste and pure and good, Eliza thanks Maria Reynolds. 

She did not need to let them stay. She did not need to let her sleep in this inn, share their space. She could have protested, and Eliza would have had no bed to sleep in. No lodging to spend the safety of the night in. “I...appreciate your kindness,” Eliza tells Maria stiffly. 

Maria looks for all the world like she’d rather swallow her tongue then continue this conversation one moment longer. Still, she forces a smile. Retrieves whatever it was that she’d intended to grab and walks to Eliza. 

She hands her a small fabric. It has a unique smell. Something fruity and sweet. Frowning at it, Eliza holds it in the air. Uncertain. “The smell...makes the shaking not as bad,” Maria explains softly, before moving to sit beside her daughter’s bed. 

Confusion fills Eliza’s body, but she carefully lowers it to her son’s face. Surprised when the boy  _ does  _ start to settle. Whining ceasing and returning to the soft dozing he’d had only moments prior. “Thank you,” she says again. This time meaning it far more than she had before. 

Folding her hands in her lap, Maria inspects Eliza as one would a piece of meat. Spoiled? Unspoiled? Fit for consumption? “If you’ll forgive me,” Maria begins. And even with her kindness tonight, it’s the one thing Eliza won’t do. Can’t. Is incapable of doing. “Where’re you going?” Maria finishes. Raising a brow as though she were fully aware of where Eliza’s mind had gone. As if daring her to voice her opinion here and now. 

Eliza scowls. Unused to her thoughts being so plain to read. Alexander could read her like a book. Could tell her moods and divine the answers to her problems. He would sit at her feet and rest his head in her lap. Wrap his arms around her and listen to her as she spoke. Calling her his  _ Betsey _ the whole while. Kissing her knees as she stumbled over errors and uncertainties. But no other had been able to know her mind so intimately. Had been able to discern where her thoughts led and why. 

A part of her longs to lie. To make up some falsehood that would make Maria uncomfortable. Would make her regret starting this conversation to begin with. But…her eyes travelled to Susan. Young and entirely blameless for the actions of her mother. For Alexander. “The physicians suggested that...griffons could cure my son.” Maria’s eyes take on an almost pensive expression. She nods. Accepting. Hesitant. 

“And...where are your...escorts Mrs. Hamilton?” She continues to call Eliza that.  _ Mrs. Hamilton.  _ How long has it been since someone called her  _ Mrs?  _ How long has it been since someone deferred to her by the name she’d expected would be  _ hers _ all her life, rather than the dark and dreary reminder of failures long since past. She has been  _ Widow Hamilton  _ for over a year now. 

Why is it that the first one to call her by her true name is  _ Maria?  _

Why does it feel like it is less polite intentions, and more a stab?  _ Mrs.  _ Hamilton. The wife of the man she slept with. The wife that had to smile in public as her husband bared his guilty soul to the world. “ _ No,”  _ he’d said. “ _ I’m not a traitor. I’m merely an adulterer. Here, let me tell you  _ specifically  _ all the ways I engaged in intercourse with this woman while my wife was unaware.”  _

“My name is Eliza,” she tells Maria sharply. Desperate to be free of any reminders of Alexander’s sin. “I have a name.” Maria startles. She squeezes her fingers tight together. Jaw clenching just a little as she attempts to formulate a response. 

“I...I meant no offence,” she says. It’s not quite an apology. 

For the first time in years, Eliza wonders if Maria even knew who she was. It’s not as if they’d ever spoken before. Eliza’s seen her on the street. Has had neighbors point her out and ask her about the shame of the affair. Has listened to the words spoken by countless supporters and detractors, all deciding how she should feel about Maria Reynolds. But they’ve never interacted. Never spared more than a few glances at each other in passing. 

Eliza, then, had been too distraught to contemplate a conversation with Maria. Had been raised too well to speak out. She’d practiced her faith and she’d attempted to remain calm in all things. But now, Eliza is too furious to hold her tongue. Too angry and upset to sit across from this woman, here and now, after  _ everything else.  _ Too furious to hold her tongue and behave. “Did you know it?” Eliza asks sharply. “When you and my Ham—when you and Alexander were—when you and  _ my husband —  _ were together. Did you know my name?” 

Did Maria know that Eliza had been pregnant at the time? With John? Did she know that after Alexander finished with  _ her _ , he came home to Eliza and tended to her aching feet. Her sore back? Did he know that he brought her food and bought her dresses. That he kissed her in the morning and right before bed. That he had been there and delivered the child he’d conceived with  _ her  _ while he also was spending time with Maria? Did she  _ know?  _

“I knew,” Maria whispers. She looks faintly ill. Eliza wonders if she’s made her uncomfortable. If she’s given her even a  _ fraction  _ of the pain that Eliza has felt since the moment the papers became known. From the moment she stepped out of her house one sunny morning and learned from a pamphlet pressed into her hand, that her husband had not only done something  _ horrific,  _ but he’d published his exploits for all the world to see. 

_ Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea culpa.  _

Did she know that aside from his affair, Eliza and Alexander had never known conflict. Had always been the best of friends. Tied to each other as friends always should be. Hand in hand in all things. Blessed with beautiful children. Granted such great fortune with their affairs. Surrounded by good men and women. Did she know that once the affair became known, the façade crumbled? 

One right after another Eliza’s world fell to ruin. The affair became known, her son died,  _ he  _ died. He died just as she’d forgiven him. Just as she’d found it in her heart to set all the pain to the side. Just as she’d determined that with their son’s death, she could not handle the heartbreak. The loss of one more member of her family. 

Did Maria know that she had sat at his deathbed, holding him close and begging him to stay? Begging him for more time. Begging him not to leave her because they’d lost so much already. Time she lost because of  _ her? _

“I’m sorry,” Maria tells Eliza. It’s not nearly good enough. Two simple words do not erase the pain and dismay of having her world shattered like stained glass in the sun. 

Eliza tucks her head to Philip’s cheek. She breathes in. She breathes out. She tries desperately to remain calm. To convince herself that even with all of her turmoil, a room with Maria is  _ still  _ safer than a room with the strange gentleman with the grotesque beard. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Maria tells Eliza softly. “But...but I  _ can  _ make rep-rations?”  

She stumbles badly over a word that Eliza knows so well. So easily. A part of Eliza delights in the knowledge. But another is dismayed. Comparisons are drawing up in her mind.  _ Is this what he liked about her? Is this? Is this what I did wrong ? _ “Reparations,” Eliza corrects anyway. Bringing her eyes back to Maria’s plain face, she tries not to sound mocking as she asks, “How could you possibly make reparations to  _ me? _ ” 

Say what you will about Maria, she did not back down. If anything, Eliza’s scathing words only emboldened her more. She sits up straight. Back as stiff as the wall behind her. “You’re traveling to the griffons right? Ehm. Well...we are too?. I...I can help you get there.”

Eliza  _ does  _ laugh at that. It’s so hard not to. So hard to look at this young woman and think for one moment she  _ actually  _ believes that she’s going to do that. That Eliza would willingly spend her time with the woman who systematically destroyed her relationship with Alexander. But Maria holds firm. She is undaunted by Eliza’s reaction. She is steady and calm, determined to succeed. “You are traveling alone, are you not?” 

She is. And she doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with informing Maria of that fact. Before she can wave it off, however, Maria presses forward. “No woman has her bags dropped off by the boy downstairs when she got a guard or servant to do it for her.” The observation is an astute one. Clearly, Maria had been paying attention. Eliza’s brow furrows as she tries to understand what Maria hopes to gain out of any of this. 

“You mean to extort both Hamiltons?” she asks bitingly. Maria flinches. 

It’s not a subtle thing. It’s a whole body affair. Her limbs jerk as spastically as Philip’s during his fits. She averts her eyes. Hands clenching down so tight that Eliza can see them glistening white even across the room. “I  _ mean  _ to make...make amends to the woman I wronged in my quest for  _ liberation. _ ” 

Eliza tries not to feel guilt. She struggles not to snap back. Argue her point, give voice to some indeterminable feeling that’s both wrong and unnecessary. But the guilt comes anyway. The guilt comes and she is ashamed of herself. Ashamed of her actions and her words. Ashamed of the hostility that rises beneath her skin and urges her to continue forward. 

Philip is dying in her arms, she reminds herself uselessly. Philip is dying, and Maria’s Susan is dying, and  _ they  _ are more important than whatever this is. Whatever pain that their unique pasts have wrought. “How do you know of the griffons?” 

“Been working for the Duer’s since my divorce. They talked about griffons before. And when Susan fell ill...they told me where I could go to find them.” She stands up now. Walking back over to her bag and withdrawing something. Slowly, making her movements known, she approaches Eliza. Holds out the folded map that she’d been keeping. 

Eliza takes it carefully. One arm holding Philip secure. “I’ve known the Duers all my life,” she admits softly. “They did business with my father.” They were good people. Or at least, they  _ had been  _ good people prior to William’s death. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about William dying in debtor’s prison. It seemed like such an unfair end to his life. But, she could hardly call him blameless. The man had speculated funds that were not his to speculate. Funds that had been entirely unbacked. “How are the Duers?” William may have been a scoundrel, but the rest of his family didn’t deserve to suffer for his bad behavior. 

“William’s still dead and they’re still tryna make do. But they’ve been good to me and Susan.” The Duers have always been good people. At the very least, Eliza’s glad that some things haven’t changed. “I’m used to travelling alone. I know where I’m going. I have the map to the den. And it’s safer to travel in groups.” 

“I don’t have an escort,” Eliza confirms softly. Maria isn’t surprised. She doesn’t even try to pretend. Doesn’t try to give Eliza the benefit of the doubt. Just nods her head. Holds out her hand for the map to the long lakes. 

“Until  _ you _ my lady, I never travelled in a carriage to and fro. I’ve never had the, um,  _ luxury  _ of your dresses and pearls.” She rings her hands awkwardly at that. “I know  _ this _ world...and I know how to navigate it. I can bring you to the griffons.” 

“ _ Why?”  _ Eliza asks again. She hands the map over. Cradles her son close. Tries to understand what could possibly motivate a woman like Maria to want to help  _ her  _ in any way shape or form. Nothing positive crosses her imagination. All explanations are completely mind boggling. Eliza cannot fathom the pieces of this conversation. Cannot pick up the thread from wherever it left off, cannot tie it into a narrative she can understand.

She drives herself mad thinking of possibilities. Is this what Alexander saw in Maria? Is this what he wanted all along? Someone strong and brave and fearless? Someone who took a map and raced off into the world? Fully confident she’d be fine. “I can take care of myself,” Eliza tells Maria sharply. She has the  _ Bestiary.  _ She has Alexander’s book on  _ Herbology _ . She can manage. Somehow, someway, she will manage. She can do this too. 

Maria, however, remains entirely unconvinced. She bites her lip and shifts her feet awkwardly. Clearly trying to find the words she longs to say. Whether it’s another chastisement on her privileged status, or another method of irritating Eliza further, Eliza is not in the mood. She’s— “I won’t force you to travel with me if you’d rather not. Lord knows it’s...best...that you and I not speak to each other at all, all things considered. I just...we  _ are  _ going to the same place. And it’s safer. It safer together. And I’d not forgive myself should anything happen to you Mrs—Eliza.” 

“You forgave  _ yourself _ for sleeping with my husband,” Eliza says before her brain can catch up with her. Maria scowls. Face always in motion. She’s never learned how to mask her features. Never learned how to play the charming lady, capable of controlling the room at a glance. 

She’s a commoner. A simple woman who lived a simple life. A  _ clever  _ woman who seduced a brilliant man from a loving marriage. A vixen. A harpy. Eliza conjures names and disparagements so easily. Each term comes to mind with greater speed and fluency. She needs to bite her tongue to keep from giving them birth. 

Philip whines again. He squirms in Eliza’s arms. Distracting her from Maria once more. She looks down at her son, and lets out a startled gasp. His eyes are open and he’s staring up at her with such stunned confusion. Pulling the cloth back from his face, she smiles at him. “Mama…?” he asks softly, sweet voice breaking and cracking in the air. 

“Sweetheart,” she greets in turn. “How are you feeling?” Phil looks around the room. Not answering. Far more interested in investigating. Alexander never saw his son grow. Never had the chance to see how inquisitive little Phil had become. Never had a chance to truly understand his youngest child’s personality. 

Sometimes, Eliza dreams of them together. Dreams of Alexander sitting on the floor with Phil in his arms. Chattering about some new idea that keeps Phil captivated for hours. Alexander worshiped their children. He treated them all with such care and devotion. He treated them with far more tenderness than he treated their marriage. Than  _ Maria _ had treated their marriage. 

“Where...are we?” Phil asks softly. 

“You should feed him while he’s awake,” Maria tells Eliza softly. “He’ll sleep again soon, and if you can get him to eat and drink now, it will make your journey easier.” 

She’s right. Eliza  _ knows  _ she’s right. But just hearing the advice makes Eliza want to spurn it. Makes her want to reject it and every other word in that sentence. Merely because  _ Maria  _ was the one who spoke them.  _ That’s unfair,  _ she forces herself to remember.  _ That’s unfair, and it’s cruel.  _ And it doesn’t help Phil. 

Reaching for her saddlebag, she opens it. Retrieves a small folded napkin that holds Phil’s dinner secure. Bread and cheese, carefully cut by Angelica in their kitchen in the Grange. She settles Phil so he sits on her lap. Cross legged and woozy. Phil leans against her. His coordination isn’t so strong, but it hadn’t been even before his illness. 

Handing the first mouthful of bread to her son, she watches as he eats. Watches as he slowly lifts the handfuls into his mouth. Chews with tiny little baby teeth, sore and loose as they are. Maria watches them the whole time. 

Occasionally she’ll look toward Susan, but Susan is still resting. Oblivious and uncaring. Eliza tries not to think about Angie lying in Susan’s position. It’s so hard not to. With Phil already weak and shaking in her arms, imagining one more child in a precarious position is not difficult.

“I fear that my faith may not be strong enough to forgive you, Maria,” Eliza tells the young woman. 

She’d forgiven Alexander. In the seven years before his death, they spent much time talking about the affair. Alexander had pledged himself to correcting his errors every day. Had fought for her forgiveness, and earned it when she deemed herself capable of  _ feeling  _ again. 

Alexander has been the only person in the world capable of locking down her heart. Of placing her mind in a vice and freezing it in time. Clicking the key into position and walking away. Waiting until she earned freedom from her confines. Alexander did that. He published his scandal in the papers, and then he proceeded to spend years attempting to fix the mistakes of his past. She spent years thawing the ice that’d formed. Learning to smile again, and actually meaning it. 

Maria had never done such a deed. Never shown Eliza any interest in apologizing for her behavior. Never reached out before this day to speak. To be fair, Eliza’s uncertain how she would have reacted in the first place. Perhaps she’d never have granted Maria an audience. 

Perhaps that fault lies within her instead.

“You have hurt me too severely for me to forgive you for what you’ve done,” Eliza says slowly.

Maria nods. Implacable. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” she replies. “I made the choices I made. I slept with you husband.” Eliza flinches. It’s been seven years. But the words still strike home. Hearing someone else confirm what she’s known all this time, still makes her heart beat too fast. Her lungs seize. Her head spin.  _ Why didn’t he tell me?  _ “But your boy don’t deserve  _ this.  _ And so I’ll take you to the griffons. Please, ma’am. Please let me take you to the griffons. Alexander Hamilton’s son don’t deserve to die because you and I are arguing over our foolishness.” 

Eliza expected to feel pain at the sound of her husband’s name. Feel something other than a slow and steady resignation. She knows Maria is telling the truth. Knows that she’s sincere in her wishes and beliefs. 

Susan is still lying on the bed. Pale faced and unmoving. Just as little Phil has been all day. “I apologize for damaging you family like I have,” Maria continues. “I truly am sorry. But you husband was a good man. And he loved ye all dearly. Please...please allow me this one chance to make it up to you. I don’t know how else to make it better.” 

Philip chews his cheese in slow bites. Jaw moving left and right like a goat. His fingers are stained with food he continues to swallow. The plague will wrap its way around him soon. Pulling him back to the depths of despair once more. He’ll become immobile, he’ll seize. He’ll take one step closer to death. Just as Maria and she will. 

Someday soon, they’ll both fall as ill as their children. Their only hope is to reach the long lakes in time.  _ Think of Phil,  _ Eliza reminds herself forcefully. 

“Show me the way,” Eliza requests. 

Maria, to her credit, merely nods. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t crack a grin. Doesn’t make any false promises. “I’ll do my best, Lady Eliza. Promise.” 

Her best, Eliza supposes, will have to do. 


	4. Eucalyptus

Susan starts mumbling in her sleep.  It’s still dark out when Eliza wakes.  Turning on her side to watch as Maria tries to settle her daughter.  Susan’s voice whines uncomfortably.  Her limbs twist.  Hands opening and closing as her back arches and her head twists.  Eliza hugs Phil close.  Grateful he’s no longer in as much agony as Susan.  

At least for right now.  

Unlike Phil, though, Susan wakes up fully during her spell.  Coughing and feverish, her eyes open in the dark.  She startles at her location, and scrambles.  Limbs still jerking badly.  “S’all right,” Maria soothes.  “S’all right.” Susan doesn’t seem to be able to believe that.  She’s trembling before her mother.  Looking this way and that, wincing badly every other second.  

Eliza longs to ask how long Susan’s been suffering from the plague.  Longs to ask questions that could actually help.  But she’d allowed her personal grievances to blind her earlier, and  _ now _ she knows is not the time.  Still, she watches as Maria tends to her daughter.  Tries to see if there is anything she can do that will assist Phil.  

With strong hands, Maria pulls her daughter so she’s sitting upright.  Leans her against the headboard and fetches her water.  Susan curls forward, but she remains seated.  Limbs jerking left and right.  One hand wraps around her throat.  The other rests on her brow.  She whines even as she tries to continue her inspection of the room.  

It takes her some time to notice Eliza on the bed opposite.  When she does, she flinches.  Twisting about to look at her fully.  “You-your-your—”

“The Widow Hamilton,” Eliza replies.  She reaches for the cloth Maria had given her for Phil earlier.  Holds it out to Maria as she passes her by, and the other woman takes it gratefully.  

“Eliza,” Maria corrects as she returns to her daughter’s side.  She lays the fabric on her lap, then braces the back of Susan’s head.  Lifting the cup to her lips.  “Her son…” Maria hesitates.  Clearly struggling to recall the boy’s name.  

“Philip,” Eliza supplies softly.  

“Her son,  _ Philip’s  _ also ill.  We’ll be traveling to the griffons together.” Susan doesn’t seem convinced that that’s a good idea, and frankly— Eliza can’t blame her.  Considering how her and Maria’s conversations and interactions have gone thus far, there’s truly nothing that seems more out of place than their tenuous alliance.  

Loathe as she is to admit it, though, Maria  _ is  _ right.  They are less likely to be harassed with travelling together.  They are more likely to be able to share a burden.  There will be times when she cannot manage Philip on her own, and there will be times when Susan will need aid as well.  Their arrangement is mutually beneficial, if nothing else.  Eliza only wishes it had been another woman and her daughter, rather than Maria and Susan.  

When Susan’s finished drinking, Maria dabs her daughter’s face with the cloth.  Holds it beneath her nose to help ease the shakes.  Susan eventually takes it herself.  Giving her mother leave to gather food.  Refill her glass.  Prepare a bedpan for Susan to relieve herself.  

Eliza turns away.  Offering what little privacy she can oblige them with.  All traces of exhaustion have left her, and she’s can’t help but feel a little out of place.  Carefully resting Phil back on the bed, she searches in the dark for a spark cloth, flint and steel.  

She finds them swiftly enough, and with a few solid strikes, she sets the spark cloth aflame.  Swiftly moving the cloth to a candle by her bedside, she lights the wick.  Blowing the cloth out once the candle burns true.  Slowly, the room fills with a warm glow, and Eliza slides out of bed.  Walks to her saddle bags to retrieve Alexander’s books.  

She pulls them out carefully.  Inspecting them for wear and tear.  They’ve survived the journey thus far, however.  No additional foxing along the edges.  Stroking their spines with her fingertips, Eliza sits back on her bed.  Opens the  _ Herbalism  _ book and starts to read.  

_ Herbalism is the study of plant life for use in medicinal purposes.  In the Americas, there is no shortage of such flora, and much of these flora are the essential ingredients to many of the most basic treatments of today’s ailments.  A mixture of— _

“Is that Alexander’s?” Maria asks suddenly.  Eliza flinches.  She glares up at the woman.  She has no desire whatsoever to speak about Alexander to  _ her _ .

No desire to share his books with her.  These were hers.  Her last tie to him.  “He taught me my letters,” Maria reveals quietly.  Eliza’s fingers tighten around her book.  “I knew them before mind...but I couldn’t really spell, couldn’t really write.” 

Eliza knows that.  She’s seen the letters Maria sent Alexander.  Seen the scrawling words no better than chicken scratch.  Seen the poorly formed sentences and the terrible diction.  And she watched as slowly but sure the letters began to improve.  Smoothing out.  Seeming less garbled and awkward.  Another sign that Alexander hadn’t merely wanted a woman to lay with.  He’d wanted a woman to converse with.  A woman to spend time with.  Someone he could teach and train.  Mold into  _ his _ lady.  

Except.  He’d already had one.  And Eliza hadn’t been worth it to stay.  

“I do not want to hear you speak of him,” she says shortly.  Maria bites her lip.  Returns her attention to her daughter.  She doesn’t look back.  

Struggling to keep herself from growing more agitated, Eliza opens up her book once more.  Looks down at the pages.  The words blur a little, this late at night (early in the morning?), she finds that her eyes must strain to make out the letter.  Still, she scans through the introduction.  Flips through the next couple of pages until she comes to the first plant.  

Eliza can’t help but smile at the small drawing Alexander’s penned next to the name.  The five points of the leaf.  The spiral stem.   _ “Aael _ ” is types in bold font, but Alexander has written around its name.  Short notes that summarize the plant and its functions.   _ Ground into a powder.   _ He wrote.  Squeezing into the margins small words that relate to preparation.  Combinations.   _ Aael  _ mixes with  _ Rosebuds  _ and can cure stomach ailments.   _ Willow Wisp  _ can be ground and mixed into a tea that soothes and relieves headaches.  

_ Anti-vascular-constrictor  _ is circled at one point.  Found in high altitudes.  

She turns the page.   _ Promotes smooth skin.   _

And another page.   _ Anti-fungal.   _ This one has a humorous aside.  One that makes her smile as she traces the words.   _ Worked quite effectively on John’s feet.   _ The note is too old to have been about their son.  Too worn and faded.  John Laurens, then.  During the war.  

A few pages later and she sees one for a laxative.   _ Lafayette was satisfied.   _ The comment makes her laugh.  It’s highly inappropriate to laugh.  Considering their circumstances here and now, Eliza’s embarrassed to note both Maria and Susan are looking toward her.  She flushes.  Not sure what to say.  How to explain.  Susan’s sick and unwell, Maria’s just received a scolding, and Eliza’s laughing.  

She laughs again.  Somewhat nervously this time.  Struggling to not seem more out of her mind than she had previously.  “It’s...I’m sorry,” she apologizes.  Biting her tongue and closing the book.  

“Laughter’s good for the soul,” Susan murmurs softly.  She leans her head back against the wall.  

Perhaps that’s true.  But Eliza’s proven already, she’s not ready to heal her soul.  She holds the book to her chest and looks out the window.  Listening as the creatures of the night surge up.  Watching the flickering lights of the guarding fires burn until morning.  

 

* * *

 

When the sun rises, Philip manages to wake enough to eat food.  It unsettles his stomach though, and he vomits.  Coughing around mouthfuls of bile as Eliza strokes his back and tries to wait him out.  Afterwards, she starts cleaning the room as best she can.  She doesn’t want to leave any trace of illness if at all possible.  

Maria watches her.  Says nothing as she pulls Susan to her feet.  Wraps an arm around Susan’s back and hoists her bags up.  Unlike Eliza, she has no need for assistance.  Can manage on her own.  She tells Eliza that she’ll meet her down at the stable, and she leaves without another word.  

Slightly impatient, and frustrated by Maria’s abrupt departure, Eliza tends to the bedding Susan used as well.  Wrapping it up in a bundle and trying to contain any illness that might have seeped from her skin.  It strikes her as rude.  Maria had made the choice to lodge in a tavern, the least she could do is try to keep others from getting sick.  

Task complete, she fetches the stable boy to assist her with her bag, and he hurriedly fetches her things.  Carrying them down stairs as she holds Philip.  Phil’s arms wrap around her neck and he buried his head against her shoulder.  Eyes watching the world around him.  Quiet and still.

Holly is already ready for her when she arrives.  Bridle in place and saddle appropriately fixed into position.  Susan and Maria are sharing a horse.  A gelding that looks young and fresh.  Susan’s already astride the creature, but Maria offers to hold Phil while Eliza gets onto Holly.  

Eliza hesitates.  Initial reaction telling her to push her away.  Insist that she can manage.  But Phil’s already shifting.  Reaching toward Maria sleepily.  Coughing and sniffling.  Carefully, she places Philip in her care.  Holding the back of his head as long as she can.  Maria holds the boy close, confident in her posture.  Well used to wrangling children.  

“Is Susan your only…?” Eliza asks.  She’s not sure what else she wants to know.  

“I cared for the Duer’s children, and others,” Maria replies.  A nanny then.  She’d been a nanny to wealthy families.  A part of Eliza longs to be vicious again.  Ask Maria if wives found it difficult to trust a known adulteress near their husbands.  She doesn’t.  

Instead she gratefully accepts the stable boy’s offer to hoist her up on the saddle.  With a little hop and a quick boost from his hands, she swings her leg over and gets into position.  “Thank you, sir,” she tells the boy, handing him another coin in gratitude.  He smiles brightly and thanks her right back.  

Maria passes Philip into her arms, and then clambers atop her gelding.  She sits behind Susan.  While not much bigger than Susan, she manages to arrange it so that she can see where they’re going.  Susan slouches against her body.  Tucking herself low and out of the way so Maria could see.  

The pale morning light grows more yellow with each passing second, and Eliza meets Maria’s eyes.  With a slow nod of her head, they get going.  Maria turning her gelding onto the road, and Holly following behind.  

When Eliza travelled with company, she usually spent the journey talking to them.  With her sisters, they’d reminisce about the past, they’d discuss their presents, dream about their futures.  With the children, she’d listen to them chatter about their individual interest.  Attempt to shepherd them away from arguments.  Try to bring them some form of tranquility.  

With Alexander, things had been different.  He’d either spend the trip writing.  Desperately trying to get every thought onto the page, or quietly dreaming about whatever new idea came to mind.  She’d ask him questions about his latest work, and he’d talk about it in a kind of detached way.  Eyes looking off into the distance.  As though he could see the words etching themselves into reality and he merely needed to put pen to paper and get it all down.  

His hands would twitch.  Eager for a pen.  Always stained with ink regardless of where he was, she’d long since given up trying to convince him not to write in the carriage.  The cuffs of his sleeves had been permanently stained for as long as she’d known him.  

Angelica used to call Alexander a mess.  Used to laugh and tease him.  Loop an arm around his and ask him how he expected to treat his wife so good and sweet if he couldn’t be bothered to wash.  The result had been a hectic three weeks where Alex had valiantly attempted not to write a single word down.  Attempted to keep his thoughts to himself and not to bother Eliza with his dreamings.  

He’d tapped his fingers endlessly.  Been irritable and cross.  Eliza had all but thrust his quill into his hand.  Demanded him to write.  Get it out.  Let the words flow.  Stop keeping them all trapped inside his head.  In response, he’d written until the sun set and the sun rose.  He’d not stopped to drink or make water.  Just kept writing and writing and writing until at long last he’d proclaimed  _ “My head is empty Betsey, I have no more words to give,”  _ and he’d collapsed in their bed and slept until the morrow.  

Words to Alexander came so easily.  Whether writing or speaking, he managed to weave whole narratives together until they formed a whole.  He never failed to strike a conversation with anyone he ever met.  Whether it be logical and scientific, or friendly and meaningless.  He’s chattered to ( _ at _ ) his children before they could even speak back.  And each one stared up at him like he gave them the moon and the stars.  Words were his lifeblood.  

But words do not come to Eliza.  She takes her time.  She analyzes each phrase.  Plans how she’ll say them.  Decides which tone of voice she should use.  Expects her outcome.  She doesn’t particularly handle moments of high anxiety well, still struggles to rein in her temper when it’s finally pushed to its breaking point, but by and large she’s struggled all her life to be temperate.  To find amusement where she can, but to play at being a Lady first and foremost.  

The world often spins on without her while she waits.  Often leaves her behind as she tries to form a response.  She’s used to that, though.  She’s prepared for that.  Has seen it happen so often that she knows that she is unsurprised.  Sometimes even finds relief in the knowledge that her input was not necessary.  Relief, in knowing that whatever she had to say wasn’t of much importance anyway.  Decisions have been made.  Ideas formed, and she needn’t involve herself in the potentially terrifying and socially demanding situations she constantly finds herself in.  

Were she Alexander, she would know what to say to Maria.  Would know how to maintain a conversation with the woman.  Would know how to charm her again and likely do any manner of salacious acts that Eliza swiftly distracts herself from imagining.  

Were she Angelica, she’d at least be capable of being polite.  Instead, Eliza finds she has no words at all.  Can just ride forward.  Following Maria and keeping quiet.  Struggling to find a topic of conversation that would actually be worthwhile having.

She doesn’t  _ need  _ to talk, of course.  There’s no pressing need to do anything whatsoever.  She hadn’t anticipated having a riding partner during this journey.  Had set out with her babe and that was it.  She had resigned herself to solitude when she left the city, and truly what is there to say? 

Phil wriggles a bit in front of her.  Awake for now, though he seems hazy and uncertain.  It defies any logic in illness she’s ever known.  Every sickness she’s ever seen.  There’d been no slow build up.  There’d been no occasional coughs.  Sores on his skin.  Nothing to suggest that he’d been unwell, until all of a sudden his body failed and the shaking starts with no logic behind its existence.  

“I don’t understand,” she whispers against her son’s head.  Maria turns to look back at them.  Lips pressed in a thin line.  

“The... _ plague _ ?” she clarifies.  Eliza needs to bite back her first thought.  Her words had not been for Maria.  Had not been for her to use or shift however she felt.  Her words had been for Phil.  For herself.  Yet the were stolen and redirected anyway.  

“Yes,” she agrees stiffly.  Then, because it  _ had  _ bothered her, “You did not wrap the bedding.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Maria replies.  She looks uncomfortable for a moment.  Turns the reins to her horse so the gelding steps off to the side.  Holly continues moving forward and soon they are riding side by side.  “Susan’s not gonna get nobody sick.  She’s not con-conta…” Eliza watches as Maria’s tongue peeks out between her lips.  Teeth biting down lightly on the tip.  As if she could latch onto the word that’s lost to her by the action alone.  

“Contagious,” Eliza supplies softly.  Maria nods.  Repeats it slowly.  Not quite correctly.  Eliza shakes her head.  “Con- _ tay- _ jis.” 

Taking her time to sound it out, Maria narrows her focus on each syllable, “Con... _ tay _ ...jis?” 

“Yes.  Good.” 

A smile forms on Maria’s face, and she nods her head.  “Contagious.  Susan’s not contagious.” 

“The plague is  _ highly _ contagious,” Eliza replies.  “Everyone who interacts with it dies.” 

“Maybe,” Maria says softly.  

“ _ Maybe?”  _

“Just find it strange is all.  You fancy rich folk never get sick as much as the rest of us.  But now it seems your all—eh….well…at least  _ more _ of you’re getting sick than we are.” Eliza frowns.  Hesitating.  “The poor always die first.  So why’s it not affecting the gutter?”

“It affecting  _ you, _ ” Eliza says.  Motioning toward Susan with her chin.  

“But I work for the rich.  I’m a laundress.  I’m always with ‘em.  Mopping their floors and cleaning their beds.”

Perhaps.  Eliza doesn’t really know what to say to that.  But she isn’t wrong.  Even before his death, Alexander had commented on the plague.  How strange it was.  How unusual it behaved.  He’d written letters to Ned, asking his medical advice.  Flipped through the pages of his  _ Herbalism  _ book in hopes of finding the answer to his problem.  But as far as Eliza knew, he’d never located an answer.  

Something felt strange with Maria’s supposition however.  It tingled along the back of her head, and she frowned.  “By your logic, any laundress would have acquired the disease.  Brought it home with them.  And yet, you claim it doesn’t affect the poor.” Maria shrugs awkwardly.  

“Just saying it don’t act like any sickness I’ve ever seen.  Can’t be treated none either."

Thinking back to the night before, the strangely scented cloth that Maria had given her for Philip to use, Eliza shakes her head.  “It can be managed though.  What was that odor?” It had been familiar.  Something spicy yet sweet.  An aloe plant of some sort, perhaps.  

Maria takes her time replying.  Grimacing as she focuses on the road.  “I’m not too good at the word.  It’s...you-ka...you-kalee?”

Oh! “Eucalyptus!” Maria nods quickly, and Eliza nods right back.  The scent is familiar now.  She recognizes it well.  Alexander would bring home the oils occasionally after he’d been on a long journey.  He always purchased it before leaving on one too.  

Feeling foolish for even trying, Eliza turns in her saddle.  Holding Philip steady as she fumbled in the saddlebags.  Finding Alexander’s book, she carefully pulls it around.  Awkwardly flips through pages while Holly huffs at her.  She’d been pulling on the reins a little, and she apologizes to the good girl.  Softens her grip and loosens her hand to stop pulling on Holly’s face.  

Balancing the reins, her son, and the book, she somehow manages to find the page on the eucalyptus.  “The health benefits of eucalyptus oil are well-known and wide ranging,” she reads quietly to herself.  Maria nudges her gelding closer though, so Eliza raises her voice.   _ Be polite!  _ She reminds.  “And its properties include anti-inflammatory, antispasmodic, decongestant, deodorant, antiseptic, antibacterial, stimulating, and other medicinal qualities.  Eucalyptus essential oil is colorless and has a distinctive taste and odor.” 

Then, tucked into the corner, and circled twice to indicate its importance, Alexander had written “Very effective against bedbugs.” She pauses, blinks twice at the words, then looks up.  Maria meets her eyes.  

This time, they both laugh.  And this time, they don’t stop for fear of bothering the other.  


	5. Trust

They reach Pennsylvania by the end of the day.  Susan is more or less conscious, and she rolls awkwardly off the gelding as Eliza settles the horse.  Maria helps Susan down.  Asks her quick questions, trying to see if she’s all right, and Susan nods her head feverishly and looks to Philip.  “How’s…” 

“He’s still alive,” Eliza murmurs.  It’s the only positive notion she has.  He’d woken a few times, and each time he did they stopped.  Slid off their horses and settled on the ground.  Eliza fed him.  Brought him water.  Encouraged him to eat and drink as much as he could manage.  She washed his skin with the eucalyptus that Maria offered.  She combed his curling locks.  

They’ll need more eucalyptus.  Maria hadn’t expected to share, and Eliza knows they’ll need to be careful using it until they find a fresh supply.  Thankfully the benefits of their partnership are already evident.  One could stay with the children while the other purchased their supplies.  And in this realm, Eliza knows she’s better suited for the task.  

Susan nods her head at Eliza.  Eyes fluttering badly as she sways.  Skin taking on an unhealthy pallor.  Preparing to hurl once more.  Eliza holds fast on the reins of the horses, watching uncomfortably as Susan is sick.  Sweat stains her face and she squeezes her eyes shut.  

Off in the distance, the night howls are starting.  They need to get inside soon.  Immediately, truly, if they want to be safe.   _ First come the wraiths, black as night.  Then come the ghosts, with skin like ice.  The scepter joins the dark.  The ghoul is in the park.  Run run run, or they’ll tear you all apart.   _

Each noise in the wood draws her ear.  She twists her head.  Searching desperately, trying to see if the figures are starting.  Fire keeps the monsters at bay, and the townsmen are slowly lighting torches, but wraiths can hide in the shadows.  They can cross the threshold.  They can slip inside.  

Eliza’s heart thunders fast.  She flinches when Maria calls her name.  Startled out of her reverie even though she knows she ought to be paying attention to them and them alone.  This was her priority.  This group.  And yet—

“We need a room for the night,” Maria tells Eliza firmly.  She nods her head.  Yes, she knew that.  “Susan is too sick, they’ll turn her away at the door.” She’s right of course.  Phil could be passed off as a sleeping child.  But Susan’s lack of balance made it far more obvious a problem existed.  Someone would notice how shaky Susan was.  They’d question her.  They’d turn her away.  Not let her up.  Fear for their families, a  _ just  _ fear, barring entry.  “You need to get the room for us.  Something on the ground floor.” Eliza stares.  

“I—” she turns toward the inn.  

“Please,” Maria begs her, arms around Susan.  Susan’s starting to shake now.  If Maria doesn’t get her someplace secure soon, the whole town will know.  Eliza turns toward Phil.  Sitting with his knees drawn up just out of the way.  Waiting patiently like a good child.  “I can watc—" _ "No.”  _ Eliza straightens.  She squeezes the reins even harder.  She glares at Maria.  How dare she even suggest such a thing.  She’s not leaving her son with Maria Reynolds.  She’s not going to allow her child to be anywhere near her.  Maria blackmailed Alexander for years because of their affair.  What she could do with Eliza’s son...she has no interest in finding out.  “Take the horses.” 

Maria glances about the stable nervously.  No one has come to look at them.  The help is off lighting torches.  Won’t be back for some time.  Settling Susan down on some hay, Maria takes the reins.  She’s trembling.  Pale.  Frightened, perhaps, by this.  If Eliza takes too long, someone will find Susan and Maria both.  They’ll discover Susan’s illness and… “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promises.  

Reaching down, she pulls Phil to her chest.  Her muscles are aching badly.  Her legs and back are sore from both riding and carrying.  Her arms are weary and bruised.  Still, she secures him close.  “As soon as I can,” Eliza swears once more.  Maria doesn’t say anything in return.  Just looks at her.  Wide eyes and hitched breath.  

They’re running out of time.  

Eliza hurries to the inn.  Flattening out her hair and adjusting Phil so he is curled around her body.  Settled on her hip.  His little arms hang against her side.  She can feel the heat from his brow even through the cotton of her shirt.  She’ll need water for a bath.  She’ll need to wash him thoroughly.  Cool him down as best she can.  

Riding in the sun had done neither him nor Susan any favors.  But they needed to keep moving forward.  They needed to keep trying.  

Pressing open the door to the inn, Eliza smiles at the woman behind the counter.  “A room for the night, if you please,” she asks delicately.  The woman looks from her to Phil.  

“Just the two of you?”

“My sister and niece as well,” she lies easily.  “The poor girl is ill from sun-heat.  We’ve been traveling all day.” 

“Aye, the sun’s been quite hot today.  What chu traveling round dressed like that for?” 

“We don’t have the coin for a carriage, but my fool brother is determined to marry.  Says it’s the love of his life.  Though he’s waited half of it.” The woman laughs heartily and reaches for a mug.  Wiping it with a filthy cloth she juts her chin toward the left.  

“Got one room there, so long as you have the coinage for that.” Eliza does.  She pulls out the fee, thanks the woman, then quickly arranges for water and food.  

Key in hand, she rushes back to Maria and Susan.  

Maria is just where she left her.  Standing stiff in the stable, eyes wide and fearful.  Though her shoulders relax when she see’s Eliza.  “Tie the horses to the beg, you’ll need to come back for them.  Quick, we’ll move Susan first, and then retire.  You or I can manage the beasts, but we’ll only have the room for the night,” Eliza rushes to explain.  Hurrying forward she retrieves Holly’s reins.  Looping them several times around a post as Maria does the same to her gelding.  

Pulling Susan to her feet, they stumble forward.  Reaching the room just as the torches finished being lit.  Maria gets Susan onto the bed, and there the girl falls.  Thrashing, limbs going akimbo.  Back arching as her eyes roll back.  Eliza slams the door shut.  Draws the blinds.  “You need to go tell the stable boys about the horses,” Eliza tells Maria.  

The woman looks at her, incredulous.  “You can’t be ser—”

“—I am entirely serious.  I cannot leave Philip alone, but I can tend to Susan.  It must be you.” 

“He wouldn’t be alone!  He’d be with me!” 

“I can’t  _ leave  _ him.”

“Would you leave  _ your _ child in a fit?” Maria asks her sweetly, face twisting into a vicious snarl.  

No.  She would not.  But… “I cannot carry the bags.  Not with Phil.  The eucalyptus and the books…”

Maria hesitates.  Hesitates, then quickly flies into motion.  “You’ll not harm her,” she demands of Eliza.  And Eliza is forced to nod.  Swear on her life she will do nothing to harm Susan.  Maria whisks out of the room faster than she’d entered.  A feat in of itself.  

She hurries out the door, and Eliza shuts it behind her.  Goes immediately to Susan’s bedside and dries her face with the bedding.  The poor girl is gasping for air.  Hands clawing at her throat.  Her air isn’t going to her lungs, and her position is collapsing her windpipe.  Hoisting the girl upright, Eliza feels the muscles in her arms burn as she slides into position behind her.  “Breathe Susan, breathe.  There’s a good girl.  There’s a good girl.  Breathe.” 

Angie caught pneumonia once as a child.  Eliza had watched as Alexander held her up.  Carefully positioned her so that air was pulled in her lungs as best as possible.  Stroking her back and striking her spine in hard swats when something lodged deep in her throat.  

Maria whirls into the room and drops the first set of bags on the floor, then whirls out.  Door slamming shut behind her.  Eliza keeps encouraging Susan to breathe.  Watching Phil from the corner of her eye.  

He’s awake and watching them.  Scared and confused.  His hands cover his ears and he cries quietly.  “Breathe Susan.  You’re doing so well.  Breathe Susan.” 

It seems to take ages for the girl to do just that.  To finally manage to stabilize her lungs.  To finally get the air to flow as it should.  Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  She has sweat pouring from her face, and her hair is a tangled mess.  

Maria returns at long last.  Everything they have secured, the horses paid for for the evening.  She closes the door behind her and she stumbles to the bedside.  Eliza quickly exchanging position so she can hold Susan appropriately.  “I’m sorry,” Maria tells her daughter breathlessly.  “I’m sorry I left you.  I’m sorry.  I won’t ever.  Never.  I’m sorry.” 

“She was unharmed in your absence, Ms.  Maria,” Eliza tells the woman carefully.  

But Maria doesn’t respond.  She sits at her daughter’s bedside, faced firmly in the opposite direction.  Shoulders tense.  Eliza knows full well that she hurt the other woman.  Knows she made a mistake.  Philip is watching them all eyes wide, safe and as well as he can be at the moment, while Susan's lying feverishly before her mother.  Eliza should have left to secure the horses.  Philip would have been fine.

"I'm sorry," she tells Maria softly.  The lines of Maria's back constrict even more.  A viper ready to strike, poised for one timeless moment as firm and as rigid as stone.  "I...didn't mean to cause offense."

Turning, Maria fixes Eliza with a furious glare.  Recoiling from the heat of such a gaze, Eliza feels her chest tighten.  Lungs struggling to draw air as her brain searches desperately for the correct words to say.  "Cause  _ offense?" _ Maria seethes in the meanwhile.   _ "Cause offense! _ Lady Hamilton, how could someone like  _ me _ possibly be offended by someone like  _ you?" _

That's not what she meant.  Eliza flinches.  Glancing furtively toward Phil who stares at Maria with wide eyes.  She doubts he's ever seen someone raise their voice at her before, and even feverish and weak, he's boggled by the sight.  Sliding from the bed, Maria strides toward Eliza.  Towers over her.  "What’d you think I'd do?" she growls at Eliza.  Making no attempt to hide her wrath.

Eliza remembers arguing with her sisters.  Having disagreements with them.  Screaming when Peggy pulled her hair.  When Angelica wouldn't give her back her books.  Their mother would send them to scrub the floors when they did that.  Strip them from their dresses and shoes.  Set them to work on the house.  Rubbing out the bed pans and dusting the attic.  If you're not going to act like ladies, you don't get to dress like ladies.

Keep your head down.  Fold your hands in your lap.  Smile at everything.  Nod politely.  Apologize and bow.  Show deference.  Agree with your husband, even if he's being a fool.  Pay proper respect all, even if they do not deserve it.

Rare was the time when someone truly shouted at her.  Even Alexander with all his passion and fire, all his tempestuous behaviors, had not raised his voice in all their years of marriage.  For a man who saw no great trouble with arguing with those around him, he rejected any such conduct at home.  Leaving her to be the shrewish disciplinarian while he earned his children's love with sweets and toys and books.

When one of the children gave her trouble, he shied away from punishment.  Looked to her to exact their consequences.  And here, she echoed her mother.  Taught her daughters to be ladies.  Taught her sons to be gentleman.  Don't raise your voice.  Don't act as scoundrels.  Behave.  Keep your head down.  Fold your hands in your lap.  Smile at everything.

"Tell me!" Maria shouts, and Eliza flinches again.  She raises a hand to her lips.  The words won't come.  They are locked within her mind.  Not even lying dormant on her tongue.  She cannot feel them within her mouth.  Cannot taste their shape or function.  She has nothing to start or end with.  No argument to make.

Her eyes fill with tears, and it's unbecoming to cry.  It's inappropriate.  She should excuse herself.  But there's nowhere to go.  She's in a Pennsylvanian inn, and night has risen.  The howls of the dark have started, and she dare not step outside.

Better the monsters within than the monsters unknown.

"I'm sorry," she manages to say.  Words wet and bleary.  They slur.  They are garbled.  She's frightened and dismayed.  Disgusted and horrified.  "I'm sorry," she repeats.  Tears are sliding down her cheeks and Maria still stands over her.

Sneers, "You're sorry," in her face.  Eliza's nose feels plugged.  She wipes at her eyes.  Desperate to be rid of the indecent affliction as quickly as possible.  Words.  Words.  She just needs to find the right words.  Something Maria, for all her limited education, seems to have no trouble doing.  "You being sorry does not address my concern."

Eliza wonders if this is how duels start.  If this is how it feels to face the wrath of one so slighted, and be incapable of mitigating that disaster.  Until the tempest takes hold and lifts you up.  Higher and higher through the air.  Wrapping its winds around you before crashing you brutally to the ground.  By my honor.  Count to ten.

_ I'll not forgive you. _

Philip and Alexander both dead because they couldn't back down.  Couldn't say no.  Had to keep fighting over and over and over again until they died.   _ I'm so sorry for forgetting what you told me... _

A noise is produced in the back of Eliza's throat.  Her mother would be appalled.  Father would be horrified.  Unladylike.  Unbecoming.  She presses her hands to her eyes.  "Stop crying," Maria orders.  Eliza doesn't.  "Stop crying!" Rough hands wrap around Eliza's arms.

She gasps as she's drawn to her feet.  Her back pressed against the wall.  "You don’t trust me," Maria continues.  Eliza is frozen.  The change in position shocking her into immobility.  "Learn to," Maria commands.  She releases Eliza then, leaving her to stumble and catch her balance.

Returning to her daughter, Maria sits by Susan's side.  One arm wrapped around Susan's shoulders.  The other resting on Susan's hand.

Eliza sinks back down to the floor.  She doesn't know what else to do.


	6. Affair

Eliza's younger sister, Peggy, had been a spitfire from the moment she'd drawn first breath.  She'd spent weeks scrubbing the floors.  Months dusting the attic.  And once, she had been given the grueling task of tending to the chimney each day for no other reason than to teach her humility.  It hadn't ever really caught on.

In return, when the British came marching up to their house during the war, it had been Peggy who stared them down and told them to leave.  Peggy, baby in hand, who had been fearless in the face of these unrepentant brutes.  Who cared not a whit for proprietary or good manners.  Who joyously frightened them off with a simple lie and a laughing smile.

Compared to her relationship with Angelica, Eliza never truly cultivated any strong feelings with Peggy.  She watched Peggy run about with her skirt hiked up.  Watched her terrorize the chickens and befriend the servants.  Scolding after scolding seem to do nothing but encourage her to act more out of line.

She was the youngest daughter of a line of women.  Never to be anything more than a cast off who might marry rich one day.  Peggy knew this well enough to know she'd never amount to anything, so why bother with social graces?

Alexander had loved her.  Had teased her endlessly.  Pulling on her pigtails and listening as she complained to him.  He'd gleefully allowed her to race him on horseback.  He'd complimented her strengths and supported her weaknesses.  He'd mourned when she'd died.

Eliza can't remember mourning for Peggy.  Not like she mourned for her first born...to her first Philip.  Not like she mourned for Alexander.  Both husband and son had died and left a gaping wound in her heart.  And yet, Peggy's death conjured none of the horrible grief that set her in mourning clothes.

While not _pleased_ to hear of Peggy's death, Eliza couldn't help but feel an almost natural acceptance.  Of course Peggy would catch a chill running about as she did.  Of course she'd be taken with fever acting as strangely as she did.  Of course.  Of course.  Of course.

Sitting on the floor of an inn, tears staining her cheeks, clothes entirely inappropriate for a lady of her stature, Eliza can't help but wonder why she'd not taken advantage of learning more while she had a chance.  Jealousy, perhaps.  Jealousy that where Peggy never ceased to combat their parents and society whenever she could, Eliza had never been brave enough to try.  Never been gifted enough to try.

Not the social marvel of Angelica, not the fearless valkyrie of Peggy, Eliza loiters between them both.  Muscles sore and aching.  Overworked and misused.  Filthy and reeking of the road.  Her hair is tangled.  Her nails have dirt beneath them.  Digging into the beds.  She can taste the salt of her tears as she licks her lips.

Maria doesn't care.  She's not looked back at Eliza since she'd said her peace.  Focused on her child.  The only reason she's here.  The only reason she's doing any of this.  For Susan.

And Eliza cannot even say much different.  She's here on the road now, acting out of class far too late in life, because her son is dying and she's turned hysterical.  Running out the door without sparing a second thought.  She's surprised Angelica hasn't sent some men after her.  That John Church hasn't ridden in, demanding that Eliza go home immediately.  He'll take it from here.

Eliza wonders if it's shameful of her for wishing they'd do just that.  For wishing that someone would take up the reins on this journey.  Would lead the way and bring her boy home hale and hearty.  She could stay at home and stitch his name into her needlework.  Prepare him some clothes and tidy his room for his arrival.  Find out what to say to the bankers to ensure her home remained in her name.  Would she be at fault for thinking such things? Has she not done more than any other woman in her place?

Only, Maria is here as well.  She is here, and she is looking at Susan.  There is no Grange waiting for Maria.  She has not the funds to finance her journey.  She has only her daughter.  A woman both cumbersome and difficult to manage.  Who has not the luxury of being easily carried by her mother.  Who, despite the fever and the exhaustion, the shaking and the pain, must stand and saddle herself each day.

Maria is a stronger woman than Eliza will ever be.  Stronger, perhaps, than even Peggy.  For at least Peggy had the benefit of knowing she had wealth and privilege to defend her.  Maria has only herself.  Herself, and her daughter, and not a cent to their names.

And because Eliza is so keen on torturing herself, she whispers one question into the night, "Why did my husband go to you?" and closes her eyes from the answer.

Philip is asleep now.  Susan too.  They are as alone as they can be.  Maria lets out a long breath of air.  "You told me not to talk to you about your husband," Maria reminds.  Her tone is still tart.  Her anger from before still burning under the surface.  Eliza knows that.  Wishes she could follow her own good sense now as she had then.

Seven years of self doubt is too much to forget.  She and Alexander had been happy.  Until...  "Please," she whispers softly.  "I...would like to know." Maria has every right to say 'no'.  She could brush Eliza to the side.  Ignore her.  Laugh in the face of her desperation.  Find joy in Eliza's great pains.  The greatest of Eliza's earthly pains.

She doesn't.  She turns and looks at Eliza.  Even with her eyes closed, Eliza can sense Maria watching her.  Can just imagine the look on her face.  She dares to look back.  And is gratified that at least the anger is gone.  The fire has been doused.  Replaced instead by a blank mask.  One Eliza knows all too well.

She sees it each morning when she looks in the mirror.  She feels it each night when she lays down for bed.  Convincing herself done well.  Telling herself the day had been a success.

"Your husband loved you," Maria tells her.  It's not the answer Eliza wants.  Not the knowledge she wants to hear.  She tries to bite back on her frustration.  Tries to ignore the feelings of inadequacy that multiply with each passing second.  A loving husband does not conduct an affair with a married woman.  "And…maybe it’ll shock you, but we didn’t...sleep with one another each time we met."

It doesn't make her feel better.  It's not even a shock.  Alexander spent hours awake most nights as it was.  Staring out the windows.  Watching shadows on the horizon. Sitting up at a table, writing as if it would drive him mad not to.  He'd be in moods.  Incapable of stopping.  Needing to pace from one side of the house to the other.  Pacing the city if the house felt too constraining.  Endlessly working.  Trying to get out his next idea.

"You’d left, I believe.  Gone to your father's."

"It's not my fault," Eliza says.  It's a prayer.  A recitation of words she'd chanted again and again and again.  The only defense she had against the insipid thoughts that haunted her in a death march of their own.   _If you'd only been a better wife, if you'd only been what he'd wanted, if you'd stayed..._

Angelica would have affirmed that belief.   _It's not your fault.  He was the one who made that choice.  It's his fault.  It's his fault._ Maria doesn't.  She keeps the blank mask firmly affixed.  She remains undaunted be her protestations.  "The truth is, _Lady,_ I needed money."

"We had no money—"

"You had _plenty_ of money to someone like me." It's true.  Eliza knows that.  Knows her standards and beliefs are different from Maria's.  But the silks and the dresses hardly amounted to prosperity.  Alexander worked tirelessly.  Desperate to care for her and their children.  Uninterested in giving her a life she might not be able to enjoy in luxury.

She'd attempted, once, to tell him that they didn't need money.  She didn't care about that.  She just wished he'd come home.  He'd looked at her like he'd not understood a word she'd said.  Like she'd blathered on about a topic and been so incomprehensibly incorrect, he couldn't fix her worldview at all.   _Of course we need money,_ he'd started.  Before shaking his head and leaving the topic as is.

Alexander kept them in comfort.  And he did it with a frugality that ran counter to his generosity.  Their charity made up their home more than their avarice.  They had money.  The very idea they could think of things such as _charity_ spoke to their wealth however insignificant it may have been compared to their peers.

"Your husband...he was a good man.  I came to him in bruises.  Told him I needed aid.  He gave me aid." Eliza's heard this story before.  Heard all the intricate pieces.  "The night we met, he'd been...out of his head.  I came up on him as he wandered ‘bout the city alone, talking to himself."

"Bruises," Eliza repeats.

"James...thought Alexander would be distracted by ‘em." For a brief moment in time, Eliza cannot help but wonder if she'd known about the affair at all.  She'd not read a single letter Alexander sent her on the subject.  Had turned her back on him.  Closed her ears and eyes to anything except his eventual pleas for forgiveness.

In truth, had it not been for their son's death, Eliza wonders if she'd ever have forgiven him.  But holding their child in their arms, Eliza couldn't bear the thought of being alone one day more.  Not for anything.

Alexander had never lifted a hand to her.  Never raised his voice.  And yet.  Eliza is not unaware that such men do exist.  That young women _(twenty three,_ she reminds herself, _Maria was twenty-three)_ are not always privileged enough to be with a kind husband.  "Told your husband I'd been beaten.  Abandoned.  That my daughter and I just needed some money to get out.  He said he didn't have any on him."

He never did.  He always kept it at home.  Occasionally he'd write a check, but actual cash he rarely travelled with.  "I didn't think he'd come.  But he did.  So I told him that I needed to repay him.  He refused." Eliza feels discomfort swelling within her.  She'd shied away from this story for so long.  So very long.  "He was the first man to refuse." The frozen mask Maria had so long maintained finally softened.

Her eyes drooped some.  Her lips tilted upwards.  Smile small.  Nearly unnoticeable.  But fond.  As if she could see him there now.  "Instead, he tended to my wounds.  He brought that book," she points toward _American Herbalism_ , "and he created a salve that he rubbed onto my scars.  He looked in on Susan, and he made me promise to tell him if James came back."

"You didn't sleep with him?" Eliza asks her incredulously.

"Not that night," Maria replies.  "He came to my home, at first, for kindness.  And each night I offered to sleep with him.  Thanked him in as many ways I knew how.  He seemed...there's a word.  Not confused.  More than.  It has a 'b' I think?"

"Bewildered?" Eliza offers.  She can recall the moments when Alexander was bewildered.  Always when he received a kind gesture.  An act of familial decency.  As if he'd never been aware such a thing existed.

Maria nods her head.  "Be-wil-dered.  And each day more out of sorts than the day before." She makes a noise.  Disgust.  "I do believe those men in congress meant to torture him until he lost his mind."

Eliza doesn't miss the deadlines.  Doesn't miss the furious pace.  The frantic way Alexander jumped from one mess to another.  Trying to come up and conceptualize an entire country's worth of finances, forcing it all into place just so he could be berated and belittled and told to procure even _more_ information.  Impossible deadlines mounting higher and higher.  

"When he came to see me, he seemed in a fit of terror.  That he'd not finish on time.  That he needed to work harder.  Faster.  He started crying so I held him."

 _It's not my fault,_ Eliza reminds herself.   _But I should have never left._

Maria continues, "When we did sleep together, I...I think he just wanted to stop thinking about everything else.  He wanted comfort.  Kindness."

"You blackmailed him," Eliza tells her stiffly.

"It was the reason I even spoke to him," Maria confirms.  "James wanted the money he felt your husband had.  And he knew how devoted to you Alexander was.  With proof Alexander had indeed been unfaithful, he knew he could make Alexander pay him." Biting her lip, Maria almost looks guilty for what she'd done.  Almost looks hurt by the words she's now telling.  "Don’ think I’ll ever forget his face when he came to our home, letter in hand."

Eliza can imagine it.  Alexander made precious few friends in life.  John Laurens, who died far too young, le Marquis de Lafayette, who languishes in France under Napoleon's rule, Hercules Mulligan, who visited as often as a business owner can manage in a town such as New York.  And James Madison.  Alexander had considered himself friends with James Madison at one point, and Madison's harsh rejection after their work on the Federalist Papers had left him in a state of shock.  Eyes wide and heart aching.  Confused and lost in the face of Madison's brutal reaction every day since the cabinet formed.

"James beat me the night he sent the letter," Maria reveals softly.  She reaches for the laces on her blouse.  Unties them and slides the shoulders back.  There's a jagged scar running from Maria's shoulder down across her collarbone.  Splintered like cracked glass.  "I remember kneeling on the floor at James' feet.  His hand in my hair, as your husband stood in the doorway.  James said 'sleep with her, or I'll kill her', 'Pay me, or I'll tell your wife,' 'I'll ruin you.'"  Maria grimaces.  Redoes her laces.  "So he did.  And James beat me less.  Left Susan alone.  Alexander came, and offered _salvation_ by making James rich."

Kindness, Eliza presumes, has always been their fatal flaw.  Alexander's kindness to Maria.  Her kindness to him.  Always believing the best in those around you.  Regardless of the cost.

"Seven months later, he got me and Susan alone.  Gave us a good sum of money, and a choice.  Take the money and leave James, or don't.  But he no longer would line James' pockets.  He put me in touch with Aaron Burr, arranged my divorce, and helped me from the city.  James," Maria continues, "Found himself in and out of prison, struggling to stay ahead of the law Alexander moved around him.  Your husband...saved our lives."

Maria ends her narrative with a forced smile.  A _There you have it,_ expression that leaves Eliza feeling as though someone has scraped away at her insides with a trowel.  Digging through to her soul and leaving her bare and barren.

She lifts a hand to cover her eyes.  Rubs at them with her thumb and forefinger.  "He published your affair to the world," she murmurs.

"Yes.  But for someone like me? It don’t ruin my reputation any.  So what if I’m hated?  So what if no one likes me?  Fine.  Let them mock.  It don’t matter.  And…if nothing else, I was the woman who lead Alexander Hamilton astray," Eliza flinches, and Maria softens her tone.  " _However_...the alternatives for _him_ were prison for a crime he did not commit, disgrace, or exile from a country he helped to build.  You and your family would have lost everything he hoped to give you.  Would have been stranded as a result of his poor choice."

"You believe it to be a poor choice?" Eliza asks.  She's struggling to understand how Maria could say such a thing.  Considering all that came of it for her.

"I feel my own guilt over those years," Maria says softly.  "I think on how many years took from him? How much stress and horror I inflicted when I followed my husband's wishes.  For my place in the act." She takes a breath, "But." Eliza licks her lips.  "At the end of the day, when I embraced him that first night? When he allowed me to sleep with him? Even for the comfort he so desperately wanted? _He made that choice._ And for him? For you? For all the years you lost together? It was a poor choice.  And...I'm sorry for my place in it."

Eliza looks at Maria, and she nods her head.  She believes her.


	7. Rachel

 Eliza wakes before dawn.  With the curtains still drawn, and the sun not yet risen, the room is dark.  The fire in the stove by the far wall has smoldered to coals.  And when she looks in on the others, she notes that all three are still asleep.

Rising slowly, she checks on both children before dressing.  Phil's fever is still raging.  He's breathing shallowly, and his limbs twitch beneath the covers.  But his heart beats strong, and his brow doesn't feel as hot as it once did.  Even in the gloomy light, Susan seems pale.  But both she and Philip are pulling through to one more morning.  One more hard trek south.  It's the best they can hope for at the moment.

As quietly as she can manage, Eliza kneels beside her saddlebags.  Pulls out the laundry that she and Philip have accumulated over the past few days.  She does the same for Maria and Susan, tying a sheet about it all to carry it together.  She looks at Phil on the bed.  Maria not far away.

It won't take her long to run to the river.  Wash what they have and ring the clothing dry.  They don't have time to wait for the sun to burn off the excess water, but there's a fire pit in their room.  She can set the clothes out to dry and they should be fine for when they leave.  But...she looks at Philip.

Looks back at Maria.

Biting her lip, she kneels at Maria's bedside.  Reaching out to gently wake the other woman.  Maria comes to with a start.  Jolting back and blinking at Eliza owlishly.  Staring at her as if she's a specter come to kill them all.  "I apologize," Eliza whispers softly.  "I did not mean to cause you fright."

"You speak too fancy so early in the morning, Lady," Maria tells her.  Groaning and glancing toward Susan as a matter of habit.

Feeling her cheeks burning, Eliza tries valiantly to keep from looking away.  From ducking her head in embarrassment.  "Apologies," she mumbles awkwardly, before rallying.  "I'm going to wash some clothes by the stream.  Can you watch Phil?"

Almost immediately Maria's eyes clear.  She frowns at Eliza and sits up.  "You don’t need to do this," she tells Eliza stiffly.

There are so many excuses Eliza wishes to say.  So many reasons why of course she shouldn't need to do this.  Of course she should just wait for them all to join her.  But each excuse feels empty in Eliza's mind.  Each thought seems half formed at best.  They are useless excuses.  Ones that are only there to obfuscate the fact that she's uncomfortable.  Disquieted by her fear and her prejudice.

"Please?" she asks of Maria.

The younger woman hesitates before answering.  She flicks her eyes toward Eliza, then back again.  Then, she nods her head.  Sits up completely.  Alert and awake.  "I'll look after him," Maria swears.

Thanking her, Eliza turns back to their things.  Clutches her bag and lifts.  She drags it from the room, careful to shut the door behind her.  Then looks out into the pre-dawn light.  From the sound of it, the night creatures have fled.  Scattered back into the shadows of the underworld until sundown tonight.

Heaving her load with her, Eliza walks swiftly toward the river bank.  Doleystown isn't very large.  And it seems relatively peaceful.  The fires are still lit along the perimeter, but she can make out the water from here, and she has no difficulty stepping past the bright threshold and approaching the bank.

Kneeling down, she unties the sheet and begins sectioning out the clothing she can.  She has no washboard, but she finds a smooth rock that can be serviceable for now.  Nails digging into the mud, she lifts the rock from the river.  Settling it where she'd like it,  _ how  _ she'd like it, and then reaching for the first shirt.

There's something oddly calming about laundry.  Soak the shirt.  Lay it flat on the rock.  Rub at it roughly until any dirt and stains come up.  She lacks the surfactant that helps maintain the color and remove the grime, but she's not incapable.  She kneads her knuckles into the fabric.  Wincing when she presses too hard and scrapes one along the rock.

Blood cracks along the finger, but it's a light trickle.  Little more than that.  First shirt done, she moves on to the second.  By now, the sun has started to truly peak up along the horizon.  Grey light takes flight.  Crossing the sky with a sweet strain.  Coating the clouds in shadows and shades.  Blues and silvers tilting precariously toward gold.

She feels her mind starting to wander toward Philip.  Has he risen yet? Has he shown confusion at being left alone? Has he started to fit? It takes all of her will power not to fall down that rabbit hole.  Not to allow her fear and self doubt to rule her mind.  She picks up the sleeves of the shirt she's attempting to wash, and she holds them into the water.

It stings.  Icy cold.  Her skin constricts around muscle and bone.  Unhappy and struggling to conserve heat.  She keeps them under, though.  Lets the cold ground her as she glares at a particularly dirty spot.  "Just wash, you," she commands the blight.  Rubbing it harder and harder.

The stain won't rise, and she scowls at it.  Reaching for a sharpened stone, she uses it to dig at the mark.  Scratching at the cloth as fiercely as she dares, not willing to tear the thread, but  _ quite  _ eager to remove herself of its infarction.

She's so absorbed in her task, she hardly notices it when a woman approaches.  Clearing her throat.  Eliza jumps.  Turning to blink up at her.  She's a small woman.  Portly.  Old too.  Deep wrinkles carve valleys into her skin.  They cast shadows about her cheeks and nose.  Her skin is papery-thin, and Eliza can see the blue lines of her veins in her wrists.  Dark spots, angel kisses her mother used to call them, pock her left cheek and right hand.

With clothes, worn and ragged, draped unflattering about her frame, she smiles at Eliza.  Kindly and generous for a woman of such accelerated age.  "Begging your pardon, miss, but’re ye’ll right?" the woman asks.

Eliza pulls the shirt she'd been folding up from the river and sets it to the side to be rung out later.  She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiles to the woman.  "Yes, madam.  I apologize, have I disturbed you?"

The woman laughs, a long deep sound.  The noise a tree makes as it bends deep in the wood.  Wind rustling its branches and pushing it more...more...mire.  "Can't disturb me none," she tells Eliza.  "I've seen an’ heard all there is to know already.  But only, ye looked so upset, miss."

"It's this mark," Eliza replies.  Holding the cloth up as evidence.  "I fear it's bested me.  I've never quite had a talent for this, though I do try."

Wrinkles pull back.  Arching proudly around the spread of the woman's lips.  A smile that's been shared amongst thousands of people in her lifetime.  The woman nods and reaches for the shirt.  Wrapping it with her weathered hands.  "Quite a bother, innit it always?" Scratching at it with her nail, she sighs.  "I used to wash all the clothes in town."

"You were a laundress?" Eliza asks.

"Once," the woman nods.  Slowly, she ambles the final few steps closer, and when she does, Eliza catches the briefest flicker of light.  So fast that she may have imagined it, but for a moment Eliza could have been certain the stranger  _ vanished _ and reappeared right before her eyes.   _ Ghost.   _ Her mind supplies.

The chill from the river water bites deep into her hands, and it runs along her veins.  Up and down her spinal column and latching fiercely to the back of her brain.  She can feel the chill gripping her like a visceral thing.  Wrapping brutally about her body and not letting her go.  She breathes out, and her breath fogs before her face.

Unusual for summer.  It's not cold enough for that.

The ghost kneels at Eliza's side.  Bones creaking and echoing around them.  She groans, as though her body still persisted.  As though it still lingered on despite it no longer truly existed.  She flickers just a little more.  With each passing second the sun rises higher.  And the woman will be cast out before too long.  Incapable of speaking, touching, or harming her or anyone else until her time of the day comes through.

"I've never seen you out so late before," Eliza murmurs to herself.  Watching as the woman drew closer still.  "Or early, I expect the case may be."

"Oh I come each day, missus.  The folks in town don't visit like they used to.  Jealous, I think." The woman reaches down and lowers the sleeve back into the water.  Rubbing at the dark mark idly as she speak.  Eliza watches her work.  Taking note of the surety in the ghost's motions.  How easy it is for the woman to push and pull at the cloth.  Bending it to her will, while still caring for its fragile nature.

Alexander had always told her that the ghosts during the war cared not to harm any of them.  Instead, preferring to just continue the tasks they had left off on their death.  They longed for validation.  For a sense of accomplishment.

And with the sun rising, there's little threat here.

This woman's calm.  Calm and tired.  So very tired.  Eliza wonders how long ago it'd been when she passed.  Her clothes do not feel too dated.  Perhaps it's recent then.  A new acquisition to Doleystown that the nightguard had not yet frightened off or killed.

Feeling it impolite to not reply, Eliza urges the ghost onward.  Setting back any fear of their encounter.  "Jealous?" she asks curiously.

"Of my many good years," the woman teases.  "When they do see me they shout and yell.  They hurt so much now though..."

"I'm sorry to hear that, madam."

Shrugging almost whimsically, she holds up the sleeve.  It's entirely cleaned.  Spot removed with perfection.

Unable to help herself, Eliza claps her hands in joy.  "Oh,  _ thank  _ you! Thank you kindly, truly you've a gift for the impossible" she praises, retrieving the shirt and marveling at its fresh appearance.  "Please ma'am, may I know the name of my savior?"

She's startled the ghost, and startled her well.  The woman is looking at her with wide eyes.  And slowly the woman smiles.  The expression reminds her of her grandmother, who at seventy-three years of age determined she had no time for bothersome things like manners and appropriate behavior.  Who determined that if, at seventy-three, she wasn't going to be allowed to fart at the dinner table, then well  _ when was she going to have the chance?  _ Her parents had called her dotty and hid her away from polite company, and Eliza spent every day of her childhood dreaming of the day she could be the dotty old grandmother sitting in the closet plotting when to fart.

Her grandmother would pinch her face together.  Lips pursing as her cheeks turned rosy.  Her eyes would crinkle and she'd let out the most delicate little 'tee-hees' as Eliza's parents looked on horrified.

"My name is Rachel, missus," the ghost introduces.

"Eliza," she introduces right back.  "If it pleases you, I'd be most gratified for your tutelage.  I fear I must move on soon.  I've a long way to travel.  But, I'd be appreciative of your assistance in the meanwhile.  Though...I have not much to pay you for your time."

Eliza winces as she finishes, wondering if she's somehow caused offense.  She doesn't rightly know what can offend a ghost.  She's never been beyond the city's fire walls at night, and even within the city they've kept the lights on until morning.  No specters nor wraiths, ghouls nor phantoms have ever haunted close enough for her to meet them.  It's...not as alarming as she'd thought it would be.

However, Rachel isn't offended by her request.  She happily reaches for the next item in Eliza's pile, and together they tend to the clothes.  Rachel tells Eliza about her life here in Doleystown.  Flickering every so often as the sun rises more and more.  Eliza listens intently.  Nodding as she tends to her task.

She asks if Rachel knows much about the people here, their stores.  Where she can find medicines for her children.  Immediately she's directed to a Mr.  Davis over by West Way.  He has an apothecary there and Eliza may just find what she's looking for amongst the items on his shelf.

The sun finally crests the horizon.  Burning light pushing back against the silvers and greys.  The sky is darker and lighter by turns.  Reds and golds combating the night.  Brilliant blue shimmering across the sky.  Eliza and Rachel both watch as a golden beam starts traversing the ground toward them.

"Thank you, Miss. Eliza," Rachel says just before the light touches her.  Eliza reaches for the shirt in Rachel's hand.  She lets her fingers touch Rachel's just one last time.

"May you truly find peace, my dear Rachel," she says softly.  "And find a good rest when you are able." Rachel's smile is brilliant.  Her eyes glitter with tears, but she thanks Eliza again.  And when the sun finally touches her body, it fades entirely from view.

The shirt falls limp in Eliza's hand.  No longer attached to Rachel's grip.  She holds it steady for a moment, waiting in case she should reappear.  But as the seconds pass and the minutes gain, she lowers the shirt to the rest of her pile, and carefully starts to ring them all one final time.  Watching quietly as the droplets fall into the water.

Task complete, Eliza stands and begins to gather her things.  Walking slowly yet surely back to the town.  The nightsguard spies her as she approaches, and one even calls her over.  "Please, miss, did you go down to the river?" the gentleman asks.

"Yes?"

"Only, did you not see the phantom there?"

Eliza hesitates.  Truthfully, she's not very good at recalling the differences between ghosts and phantoms and specters.  The subtleties confuse her, and they seem so minute it'd never crossed her mind.  But if they believe the woman to be a phantom, she's not going to argue with them.  Asking only, "Miss Rachel, you mean?" in case she's wrong.

"You  _ spoke  _ to her, miss?" the guard asks.  Speaking loud enough that his colleagues arrives as well.  They exit the guard house.  All fresh faced young soldiers who speak quickly amongst themselves before nodding in unison and approaching.  "However did you survive?"

"I'm not certain I understand?" Rachel had never shown any signs of violence.  In all the time they’d spoken.  She’d not been threatening once.  

"We've been trying to be rid of the thing for years.  Keeps coming back."

"And she's violent?" The guards look a touch confused by her question.

"Well, she's a phantom innit she? Why'd ye want one o’ them around?"

Eliza has no notion of how to respond.  Can only force her expression to turn agreeable and thank them for their good service.  They let her pass, though they continue staring after her.  Muttering to themselves long after she's rounded the bend and into the inn.

Pressing open the door to her room, she immediately spots Philip sitting with Maria and Susan on the bed.  Alexander's  _ Bestiary  _ sitting on Maria's lap.  She's trying to read it to them.  Slowly sounding out the words as the children look down at them, though she stops as Eliza steps through.

Closing the door, Eliza brings their wet clothes to the fire.  Maria's stoked it since she's been gone, and it's burning bright.  It'll be too hot to leave it running for long, but it'll be just good enough to get their clothes far less damp.

"You left before the sun rose," Maria chastises.  Low voice filling the room with an unhappy timber.

"I wanted to care for the clothing, have it done with when it's time to leave."

Philip coughs loudly, and Eliza turns.  She doesn't have to address him, though.  Maria's lifted the boy with confident movements.  Placed him on her knee and folded him forward so the phlegm can leave his throat.

"There be monsters in the dark," Susan says.  Her eyes trailing toward the  _ Bestiary.   _ Eliza can't help but wonder if that'd been an entirely appropriate book to read while they all considered her chances of returning unscathed.

"They're not so scary," Eliza assures.  She lays out the shirts and leggings.  Drapes the socks as close as they'll go.  It's quick work.  Busy work.  And when it's done, she sets to cutting up some fruit and cheese for their breakfast.

Before they leave town, she knows they'll need to resupply.  The coinage in Eliza's pocket is becoming lighter by the day, but she should have enough to afford their journey south.  In two days time, they'll arrive at the future capital, and if they push on just a little longer from there—Mount Vernon.  Martha Washington had once told her that she and the children were more than welcome at their estate whenever they wished to arrive.  It's an offer that Eliza is all to accept at this point.

The sooner she can place the capitol from her memory, the happier she will be.  And if they can avoid staying there altogether, she'd much prefer it.

She has no desire to be anywhere near that detestable city and all of its unkept promises.  "You all right?" Maria asks Eliza slowly.  The question startles her, and she looks back over her shoulder.

All three of them are staring at her.  Susan with awkward uncertainty, Philip with eyes so wide, and Maria...who truly seems to expect Eliza to admit she'd been tortured by some horrible beast whilst she'd been gone.  "I'm fine," she replies.  "It's going to be a long day."

They have a lot of ground to travel.  But when she looks back at the clothing by the fire, every single shirt and strip of cloth is dry.  Eliza blinks at them.  Reaches out to touch them.  They remain dry beneath her fingers.  "Eliza?" Maria presses.

The fire must have been warmer than she'd thought.  Shrugging, Eliza moves to stand.  "It's going to be a long day," she repeats.  "But...a good one.  What do you think Philip, shall today be a good day?"

Her son smiles.  It's good enough for her.


	8. The Widow Hamilton

_ The American Bestiary  _ isn't a particularly large tome.  If anything, Eliza strongly believes it should be bigger.  There are whole sections missing, particularly on phantoms, ghosts, or the other nightwalkers.  She flips through the pages while Maria and the children get dressed.  But it seems as if the  _ Bestiary  _ is far more interested in the creatures of the day than the spooks that haunt the evening hours.

Frustrated, she instead turns to the entry on griffons.  Of all of the notes accumulated throughout the book, it's this one that has the most detail.  Alexander's careful scrawl is scattered throughout the chapter.  However, and far more interestingly, there's another pen dotting the page.  It marks eating habits, mating habits, rituals and traits.

Where the text of the book seems fixated on what the griffons look like and what their range is, the notes are far more complimentary.  Every so often, the researcher has sketched a finely detailed picture to accentuate the point.

The long hooked curve of the griffon talon.  The pad of the griffon's back paws, the particular curve of the beak.  The eyes.   _ Can see up to seven hundred yards with perfect clarity,  _ the researcher reports.

She turns the page.  Smiling at the charming sketch of the eggs and baby griffons that are squeezed in between the end of the last paragraph and the bottom margins.   _ Although it is true that griffons mate for life, should a griffon's partner die they do form intimate bonds with other widow(er)s.  Forming unconventional family units that thrives despite the lack of a true mated pair.  Further, griffons appear not to be concerned with matters of gender and will mate with both sexes.  They have been known to adopt abandoned or lost eggs should the parents of such eggs be proven dead. _

The book seems to contradict the notes frequently.  "I wonder why," she murmurs.  Alexander makes no conscious reference to the other scribe.  His notes are primarily fixated on his own encounter.   _ The front talons can tear and shred as swiftly as any large bird.  And their back paws provide the thrust needed to take flight. _

Though he does have one moment where he circles a line from the original author.   _ Tokens given by griffons are considered to bring good fortune.   _ A quick aside from the unknown researcher providing context,  _ gifts alone.  Stolen goods will bring discord instead. _

Maria leans over Eliza's shoulder to look at the pages.  She's dressed entirely now.  Ready to embark.  She's washed her face in the small basin they'd received the night before.  Pulled her hair back so it's braided in a tight knot at the nape of her neck.  "Soldiers used to carry 'em.  Do you remember that?" Maria asks her softly.

Maria would still have been a child during the war.  Sitting on her parents knee— _ no.   _ She'd likely have been working alongside her parents.  Watching the soldiers on parade, then cleaning up after them when they'd gone.

"Did you know anyone who fought?" Eliza asks curiously.

"A few.  My father volunteered for a few months, was over at Valley Forge." She huffs then, shaking her head and picking up their saddle bags.  Susan is sitting upright, shivering violently.  Blanket wrapped around her shoulders.  She's not fitting, not yet.  But it's a near thing.  They'll need to push on before she becomes too worn to climb on top of a horse.  Without her help, Eliza doubts they'll even be able to get her up on there.  Especially without spooking the animal.

Standing, Eliza glances down at Philip.  He's coughing underneath his breath, and she trails her fingers through his hair.  "That was a long winter."

"You know, the winter wasn't the hardest bit." She did know that.  The papers entertained themselves with writing about how frigid the weather had been.  The politicians recused themselves with talk of how they could not control the weather.

And yet, it hadn't been the weather that led to so many deaths.  It hadn't been the weather that caused hundreds of men to starve.  The shelters had been put up quickly.  The fires burned well enough.  But the supplies never came.  The help never arrived.  The men and women at Valley Forge were left to slowly wither away.

"Alexander once said the taste of bark became so common, he'd rather see England retake the States than bear one more meal of it." Not a particularly innocent comment, and one that saw his detractors immediately scrambling to call him a loyalist.  A British sympathizer in disguise.

Maria huffs.  Shaking her head and rolling her eyes to the ceiling.  "Sometimes I wonder if Alexander knew how much trouble he made himself.”

Likely not.

In any case, Eliza stands and stretches her back as straight as it will go.  "There's an apothecary not far from here, they may be able to provide us with some more eucalyptus."

Maria pitches her voice so it’s high and airy, mocking with each word. "Why Lady Hamilton—"

"—You do have my permission to speak my name, you understand?" Eliza cuts in.  Maria nods her head.  Distinctly unimpressed and unmotivated to change.

" _ Lady  _ Hamilton," she continues teasingly, "Shall you lead the way?"

It's a dangerous thing.  Moving the children through the town and not directly out of it.  But they move slowly.  Carefully.  Maria manages the stable boy.  Susan summons all of her strength and just barely manages to get up onto the horse.  Her left foot nearly slips off the stirrup as she attempts to mount.  Her right leg struggles to rise, but Maria catches her back.  Pushes the limb into place.  And she clambers up right behind.

"Hard on the horses to ride double all the time," they're informed by the very helpful stable boy.

"Yes, well, needs must," Maria snaps back undeterred.  Holly's nose is dragging toward the ground as Eliza mounts.  Weary after so many days in the field.  The poor girl deserves a nice pasture to just graze at her leisure, not another endless trek through the American countryside.  Eliza winces when she sees just how resigned Holly's gotten, and she rubs at the mare's neck.  Promising her softly that they'll get her to a nice green field to graze soon enough.

Guiding the horses forward, they make their way through Doleystown.  Passing the small shops and the simple churches.  The stableboy pointed them in the right direction, and now they merely needed to look from sign to sign until they came across the apothecary's mark.

Moving the horses behind the shop, Maria takes Holly's reins for Eliza.  Holly snorts loudly.  Shakes her head as she closes her eyes.  Half asleep as it is.  She likely wouldn't go anywhere even if Eliza left the reins about her neck.  But the illusion of safe keeping helps put Eliza's mind at ease.  Tapping her purse at her side, she runs through some mental arithmetic.  Calculating exactly how much she has left on her person, and how much she can spare.

Pushing open the apothecary's door, Eliza adjusts her son on her hip.  Still holding him from before.  An elderly man looks up at her from behind his work station.  Mortar and pestle set in front of him.  Grind stone not far away.  "And you are?" she's asked almost immediately.

"Eliza," she replies.  "My son and niece are ill.  I'd hoped for some medicine."

Standing slowly, the man approaches.  Leaning over his counter to squint at Phil.  "They both suffer from the same...he burns with fever," she admits.  "And their appetit—"

"—Yarrow and peppermint for fever, peppermint for the food too.  You'll be wanting some ginger and fennel seed as well." He goes to collect the ingredients.

"And eucalyptus, if you please," Eliza continues.

The man grunts at her, bagging the supplies and dropping them in front of her.  Counter between them.  "Not do much for your fever."

Eyeing the product, Eliza thanks him quietly.  "I'm aware of its properties...but the eucalyptus is not for the fever."

He squints at her.  Then back at her son.  "That's no ordinary illness, is it my lady?" Leaning forward to inspect the boy, his fingers tap against the counter.  Philip squirms.  Twists so his head is pressed against her throat.  She can feel his cheeks burning through her skin.  Setting fire to her soul.

"We'll be out of your town shortly," Eliza replies stiffly.  "But I need that eucalyptus."

"Where you off to then?" the man asks.  He pulls a jar from the shelf and carries it to a set of vials.  Slowly, he begins pouring.  Sliding in as much oils as he can.

"The griffons."

" _ Griffons!"  _ He throws his head back.  Laughs loudly.   _ "You _ mean to fight the griffons?"

Fighting is not exactly what Eliza had in mind.  If she could avoid them she would.  She merely needs a few things.  That's it.  Preferably without their ever needing to interact.  Eliza knows she' s no warrior.  She has no weapons.  She's not capable of fighting a monster like a griffon.  But she's small and she's determined.

She’ll get it any way she can. 

Refusing to be cowed or bullied by the man, she adjusts Philip once more.  Plants her feet more firmly on the ground.  "I wish to save my son and niece."

"Yes and while you're worried about them those menaces will tear you apart.  They are violent and horrid beasts.  They'll smell you before you ever enter their territory.  Kill you the moment you think you'll be rid of them.  Did you know no lone man has ever managed to best the creature? Whole armies are sent after them."

He sets a row of vials before her.  Nestled in close beside the other herbs.  "Their skin is thicker than armor.  Their beaks can tear through the trunk of a tree.  Feathers that cure blindness.  Ha! Why do you think there are those still blind? Talons that cure all illnesses.  Turn wraiths back into ghosts.  Put ghosts to rest. Ha! And the people are still ill.  Wraiths still exist.  Ghosts still walk this land.  You're wasting your time."

"How much for this?" she asks the man shortly.

"Why bother?  That child is as good as dead—"

"—how much for your supplies, sir? So that you may be rid of the dead once more?"

"Twelve coppers."

Eliza's breath catches in her throat.   _ Twelve?  _ "That's more than three nights at the inn."

"You won't need your money for long.  What's it matter to you? Five more days with your son? Hmm? Give or take? How much is that worth?"

"You're a horrid man," she grits out.  Reaching for her purse.  She drops nearly half of her coins onto the table.  He counts them with a twisted expression.  Tongue pointed out between his lips.  Tucked into the corner.  She collects her supplies swiftly.  Feeling her face heating up as rage boiled beneath her skin.

Satisfied she'd paid her share, the man slides all the coins from the counter.  Waves them in his fist before her face.  "The ghost of Alexander Hamilton thanks you.”

Eliza's body is frozen into immobility.  Her limbs stiffen.  Fingers crackling along the joints.  Locked tight about the vials and the herbs.  Philip's head lifts up from where he'd hidden it.  Her feet are rooted down.  Digging deep into the earth.  Securing her stature.  Enhancing her stability.   _ Smile,  _ her mother's voice reminds her.   _ Agree. _

" _What_ did you say?" Eliza hisses instead.  It startles the man.  Startles him badly enough that it wipes the cruel grin right off his features.  "No.  No I am quite certain I heard what you said," Eliza presses on.  Undaunted.  " _The_ _ghost of Alexander Hamilton thanks_ me," she quotes, sliding her voice up and down his graveling accent.

"I—"

"Since you clearly have no notion who I am, I shall tell you." Leaning forward, glaring at him with every ounce of energy she holds in her body, she spells it out as viciously as she can.  "My name is  _ Eliza Hamilton,  _ Alexander was my husband, and the medicines that you have provided for such an  _ exorbitant  _ rate are an insult to him and all he worked for."

If possible, the apothecary's face turns impossibly white.  He sputters.  Searching for words.  She will not listen.  "My husband fought for this country from the moment he stepped foot on her soil.  He was George Washington's most trusted advisor.  He built the financial system that you've so clearly perverted for your own personal gain.  He put down rebellions, he championed for good human rights, and has always had the best interests of the  _ people  _ and this country at heart.  He secured this country's credit, he ensured commerce could prevail, he created the first national bank and alleviated the debt burden.  And  _ you think he'd be grateful you swindled me from twelve coins?  _ When your goods are worth two at most? _ " _

She's breathing hard.  Her heart hammers about in her chest.  Her blood is pumping faster and faster within her.  She grits her teeth and she leans forward.  "My husband gave his life to this country, and your avarice is a mockery of everything he worked so hard to build.  Shame on you, sir.  And shame on your practice.  You're a disgrace."

"Widow Hamilton, I-I meant no offence—"

"Precisely  _ how  _ is that meant to be inoffensive you daft fool? Either I am a federalist who would be scorned by your words of their hero, or I am a republican who agrees and will continue mocking my husband's good name.  You've cast my husband as a villain and you backtrack only now when you see your vile behavior is chastened.  You're a weak minded, horrible little man, and—and— _ I don't like you! _ "

Turning on her heel, herbs and oils in hand, she marches from the shop and around the corner.  Making her way to the back of the store where Maria waits with Susan and the horses.  Maria's staring at her with eyes wide and expression—awestruck.  Susan, even struck by fever, appears to have been stunned by some marvelous event.

_ "What?"  _ Eliza snaps; fighting with the saddle bags so she can stuff her items within.  Action done, she hoists Philip up onto the saddle, and then mounts herself.

"Weak minded, horrible little man?" Maria quotes.  Eliza feels embarrassment fighting back against the anger in her heart, and she forces herself to hold onto the anger just a touch longer.  Just until they get onto the road and she can let it out in the privacy of their group.  Can give it up to the heavens and feel no such compulsion to let it use her voice again.  There she can feel shame for having shouted at an elderly man over a slight that had no long term impact on anyone but a memory.

Alexander was dead.  What did it matter if his legacy was mocked? Was she to ride to each dissenter and argue herself blue in the face until they agree? She had not that kind of strength in her.  Nor that masochism.

Shouting at one man did nothing.  And she'll likely regret casting aspersions on him so freely at some point in the future.  But for now, she holds onto her anger with both hands.  She settles herself onto Holly's back and reclaims her reins.  "Well he is!" she insists, refusing to be cowed by logic just yet.

"I don't think even Alexander himself could have argued the point more clearly," Maria teases.  It makes Susan laugh.  The young woman coughing miserably into her shoulder as the giggles overtake her.

Urging her gelding forward, Maria once more takes the lead.  Stopping only when the apothecary rushes about the building.  Stopping them in their tracks.  He's a touch out of breath.  Eyes wild and chest heaving.  Eliza's lips press tightly together, and the man approaches her horse with a stumbling gait.  Holding up his palm full of coins.  "Please, my lady, I...I acted out of turn and—" He grabs at her hand.

Maria slaps him hard with her reins in response, striking him off Eliza without the slightest bit of hesitation.  He curses and steps back.  Holly, now awake, starts stamping her feet.  Huffing loudly.  Ears pointed forward aggressively.  Air puffing from her nostrils.  "Enough," Eliza commands.  Silence falls amongst them all.

Holding out her palm, she waits, and the man slowly approaches again.  Placing her coin back into her possession.  She feels it's weight, and scans the amount.  "You've given me too much," she tells him stiffly.

"Your grace," he's gotten the wrong honorific.  She is  _ not  _ his grace.  And never will she be.  "I've returned all your coin to you."

"I understand that,  _ sir.   _ And it is too much." Carefully she counts out two coins and returns them into his possession.  "When I leave here, you will be a man whose work was paid for with fair compensation.  And I will have been a customer to your store.  I will not be the wife of Alexander Hamilton, who demanded your work for free."

He stares at her.  Dumbfounded.  But she cannot bring herself to explain any longer.  Can only tuck her coins back into her purse.  Let loose the anger she'd longed to hold onto for just a little longer.  Adopt the face she's perfected for years.  The one that lets him know that he'll receive no further ill will from her or her party.

"Thank you for your honesty, sir.  At the end of all things."

He is still staring.  Stumbling now, as he tried to formulate words.  "Of course, your grace, I mean— _Lady._ Widow? Widow Hamilton.  Of course.  And...and you're going to the griffon's you said?"

"What's it matter to you?" Maria asks.

"It's only...be wary—the night spirits between here and Virginia are more harsh than they've been in years.  All that construction on the capitol is waking them from their grave."

"Thank you for your warning, sir.  We shall be careful," Eliza replies.  "Good day."

"G-good day."

Turning back to Maria, Eliza dismisses the man from her thoughts.  She angles her heels down, she adjusts her grip on her reins, and she nods her head.  Time to move forward.  Once more onto the breach.  Once more.


	9. The Dance

_ “G-G’day mi Lady,” _ Maria mocks.  She hasn’t been able to keep her amusement to herself.  Just keeps going on and on and on.  Eliza flushes dark, busies herself with readjusting her seat and keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead.  Usually she rides behind Maria, but this time Maria’s moved so they’re walking side by side.  It’s nice, for the most part.  Susan and Phil are both a little more awake today, and Susan reaches out and pokes at Phil’s arm.  Making him giggle into his breaths.  

“I don’t believe he was quite that bad,” Eliza tries to explain.  She’s still uncomfortable with the exchange as a whole.  Her father would have called her impolite for raising her voice and making a fuss.  It’s unladylike to have shouted, and she knew better than to toss about Alexander’s name like that.  It wasn’t fair to him, and it wasn’t fair to his legacy.  

Having a wife who shouted about his memory would only take away from that image.  She shouldn’t have involved herself.  It was foolish.  Foolish.  Fool—Maria starts laughing again.  “We could hear you, you know? All the way out here, round the corner ‘n all.  We could hear you clear as day and I gotta tell you Lady, there’s never been a man given quite the same talking to as that ol’ maester.” 

“Apothecary, maester is—”

“—Oh what’s it matter? Maester,  _ apothecary,”  _ Maria draws out the word so it takes her far too long to say.  “S’all the same thing in the end.  Hack physicians who don’t know nothing about nothing and can’t explain away this plague.”

“Ma don’ lie quacks,” Susan slurs quietly.  She’s got a pretty voice, even gargled by illness and fever.  A sweet sort of dainty sound.  A light little soprano.  Eliza imagines she sang beautifully, if given the chance.  

“Not all doctors are...quacks,” Eliza explains slowly.  She doesn’t mean to offend either one of them, though she knows how easy that could be taken out of context.  Maria laughs.  Tossing her head backwards.  

The sun’s started burning away at Maria’s skin.  Her cheeks reddened at first, but now they’re browning.  Darkening more about her nose than her forehead and chin.  Her brown hair curls badly around her face.  Sweat forcing the smallest whips of her curls to plaster against her face.  

Eliza squints as a sunbeam peaks from the clouds above.  It blinds her for a brief moment.  Makes her eyes sting as she tries to shade them from the light.  Maria arches into the light, though.  Smiling contentedly.  Grinning like she couldn’t have asked for anything better or more satisfying.  She’s in a good mood.  It’s a good look on her.  

As soon as the thought crosses her mind, Eliza finds herself reeling.  She thinks back to everything she knows about Maria.  She hasn’t had much chance to  _ get  _ to know her.  To see the various shades of who Maria Reynolds was as a person.  To see whether this is a good look...or perhaps if there were better looks as of yet unknown.  

Maria smacks her lips and adjusts her own seat.  Kisses the back of Susan’s head as she carefully puts Susan into a better position.  “Thing is, unless you’ve got the money to show for it, you’re not getting anyone who’s  _ not _ a quack.  You see?” Maria asks Eliza with a shrug.  “And it’s not as though your  _ physicians  _ are any better.  All of them insist on bleeding us dry and seeing if that’ll help.  Like that worked well for Lord Washington.” 

“You know, we’re not Lords or Ladies.” The transition from the title had been easy and exciting.  She’d enjoyed slipping from the role.  Enjoyed reasserting herself as Mrs.  Hamilton.  Some of her peers had waived.  Complaining that the lack of official gentry meant that they were no longer obviously superior than those beneath them.  

Eliza fully intended to continue that topic, explaining why Alexander and the General fought so hard to ensure that there had been no established nobility as there was across the sea.  Maria snorts, though.  Cuts in with a di statement, “Y’all can call yourselves whatever you like, it don’t change you into anything different.” 

She has a point.  Eliza cannot truly ignore it.  Nor can she pretend that the point isn’t effortlessly valid.  To be fair, Eliza doesn’t think much has changed at all in their way of life.  She expected a certain quality of life, and she lived a certain lifestyle as was expected of someone from her stature.  

And Maria knows it too.  She’s looking at Eliza from the corner of her eye.  Grinning at her with a twist of her lips.  Garbled and ever-changing accent giving life to new words.  Eliza’s ear struggles to find the dialect or simple pattern that explains Maria’s cadence, but none comes to mind.  Perhaps it hardly matters.  Instead, she finds herself getting lulled into Maria’s tale, effortlessly leaning closer so as to pick up each and every word, placed all in such precise locations.  Grammar and eloquence be damned.  

“My family always worked for people like you, rich folk who don’t pay us no mind.  Not as cheap as slaves, but you can thank your manumission friends for all that.  We got a penny a week from scrubbing floors and cleaning bed pans.  Money’s not enough for us.  Never is.  But we got good at filching from your trash and getting what we needed.”

Eliza hates how Maria says ‘you’ as if she’d worked for Eliza’s family.  As if she’d served the Schuylers and had been treated poorly by them personally.  But she keeps her mouth closed.  Listens as Maria goes on.  “And I’d see your physicians and your scholars.  Your crystal worshipers,”  _ occultists,  _ “and hexers.”  _ Witches.   _ “You all read your books and mind your herbs and you do everything you can to do whatever.  And.  When it comes to us? The poor? Y’all never looked twice.  Never cared what we were doing.” 

I used to look into your windows and watch you dancing, and I'd try to match the steps.  Never could get it quite right.  But never seemed ta stop me.  Always wanted ta learn.  But you rich folks always seemed ta know exactly how to do it.  How to move and how to step.  Figure you spend hours learning and what not.  Even saw a few lessons when I was scrubbing some floors once.  Watching as the ladies and the gents of the house got together and learned their children."

"Taught their children," Eliza corrects softly.  Maria rolls her eyes.  

" _ Taught  _ their children," she amends.  "In any case, that's what life is like.  You know? You and your fancy dress and your fancy language.  Always speaking proper and expecting others to do the same.  Even if we don't get the same kinda education as you."

"That's not why—"

"—I ain’t blaming you, Lady.  It's a just a fact.  You live your life in your tower and you don't see it from down below.  Your a Lady, good and proper.  And you always will be.  You jus' can't understand what life is like from our point of view.  And you probably never will."

The road up ahead curves slightly to the left.  Narrowing along the bend.  Holly, the slower horse, naturally falls back in line.  Letting Maria steer her gelding forward and lead the way.  It's a natural break in the conversation, and it gives Eliza time to try to formulate a response.  She doesn't necessarily agree with Maria.  Certainly doesn't know if she really thinks that such a thing is fair to impose on  _ all  _ persons with money.  

But...she is right.  Dancing lessons in the Schuyler household took place from the time Eliza was old enough to remember.  They went hand in hand with needlepoint and social etiquette.  She used to long for her dancing lessons.  Eager and excited to jump ahead and show everyone what she learned that day.  

Her father was a patient man, and let her perform for their mother.  Clapping his hands and walking around her as she attempted to do the right footwork.  Her mother used to sit, fanning herself elegantly along a chaise.  Watching them go as Angelica played the piano with stumbling fingers.  

Peggy had always complained about the lessons.  Whining that she didn't see a point in it, and can she go out and ride the pony instead? But Eliza found a sense of comfort in the steps.  Regimented and understood.  She knew her place in the dance.  Knew her motions.  Knew that at the end of the turn, her partner would be there with his hands at the ready.  Polite and prepared to move on to the next part of the journey.  

Elegance in every step.  An entire room twirling and moving as one.  Eliza relished in the new dances that came out.  Eagerly learned each move and brought them home to perform.  Her parents never quite understood the newest styles, always complaining that they seemed indecent, but the joy and the inclusivity of the steps were far too alluring for Eliza to put off altogether.  

"Got asked once if I knew how to dance.  Was at this old man's house, and he wanted to show his son a thing or to." Maria's lips twist unhappily.  "Ma told him 'yes o'course, she practices all the time.' Which you know I tried my best, but I never did dance once proper in my life.  It don’t matter to him. He grabs me and hauls me about expecting me to keep up.  And when I couldn't, they all laughed and said something 'bout how the poor don't have no idea how to dance proper.  No point in teaching us either.  Too stupid to learn."

"That's awful," Eliza tells her.  Aghast.  Maria shrugs.

"Happens all the time." The road widens once more and Maria angles it so their horses are once more walking side by side.  "I asked your husband to teach me once," Eliza bites her lip at the revelation.  "When James let us be, but he still needed to stay and neither of us wanted to…well.  You know.” She did.  “He was asking what I wanted that night, and said he didn’t care.  But…of all the things we'd done then...with James and without...that's the one thing he refused to do." It's harder and harder to control her face, and Maria glances over to see her struggling.  "I've made you mad again haven't I?"

Too much! Eliza bursts.  Laughter exploding from up within her.  Phil twists his neck around in an attempt to stare up at her.  Flushed little baby cheeks squishing against her chest as he tries to see what's so funny.  He'd been too young to know off hand, though every other child in the Hamilton household  _ was  _ fully aware of Alexander's dark secret.  "My husband," Eliza giggles.  "Is a  _ terrible  _ dancer."

Maria's mouth drops.  Her eyes widen.  She looks as if she cannot quite understand what Eliza's trying to say.  As if the concept had never occurred to her.  "Oh when it came time to teach P—" Eliza's mirth comes to a halt.  Unconsciously she squeezes her arms around Phil a little more.  It's been four years.  More than that by now.  She needs to force herself not to start counting days.  Not to drag up the exact time and hour that has passed since her son died.  

At her left, Maria is looking at her with a far more reserved expression.  She's not casting judgment.  She's keeping her thoughts to herself.  Eliza takes a deep breath in.  Lets it out.  Breathe.  Let it out.  "When it came time to teach our first born," she continues, struggling move on.  It's like wading through water.  Legs dragging you forward even as your dress drags you down.  The ocean wrapping around your body.  Gripping it and holding you tight.  She tries to press forward, barefoot in the sand, but her toes lose their grip and the wakes keep cresting against her hips.  

One day she expects the water to rise up and drown her.  Pull her to the depths where she cannot hope to recover.  Cannot manage to stand.  She'll lay on the ocean floor and wait until death claims her.  The grief is unimaginable.  And she's so tired of fighting it.  

Philip reaches up to her face and touches her mouth.  He's all twisted about.  His big brown eyes staring up at her with strange understanding and awareness for such a tiny little thing.  He never knew his namesake.  Never knew her first Philip.  His older brother who died mere months before his birth.  It had been a mistake, perhaps, in naming her youngest son after her oldest.  Because now, holding her boy in her arms, she's trapped in a horror she never wished to know.  She can't lose Philip again.  

She leans her head against Phil's searching fingers.  "I had to teach Alexander again so he would not be ashamed in front of his children." She changes the narrative, trying not to dwell on the loss and instead remember the joy of the moments she recalled.  "He found the beats too difficult to follow.  Was distracted by the music.  Lost count because he'd be thinking about something else." She kisses Phil's hand and then encourages him to sit proper.  Bad posture led to sore backs, and he didn't need any more hurts.  

Seemingly sensing that the conversation needed to be more light hearted, Maria offers, "Thinking about politics and not dancing?"

"Oh thinking about any number of things.  He used the most delightful excuses for his poor performance.  The first time we danced, he chattered non-stop.  Compliments and great tales.  He teased and flirted and distracted beautifully.  I hardly noticed his performance until Peggy pointed it out.  I don't believe he's ever been more embarrassed, but Peggy always knew how to tease him proper."

"It's hard to imagine him bad at something," Maria admits.

"He had his faults," Eliza reveals.  "And dancing is not a trait his friends were good at either.  You are familiar with le Marquis de Lafayette?"  Maria nods.  Of all of Alexander's friends, perhaps Lafayette remained the most famous alongside General Washington.  Eliza always delighted when she saw street signs being named in Lafayette's honor.  The man may have been a poised and elegant leader in the army, but he most certainly cast a different impression amongst friends.  "He once danced so poorly he knocked over Marie Antoinette in the midst of a ball!"

Susan and Maria both shared the same stunned expression.  Susan even exhaling a breathy "Is that true?"

"It most certainly is.  His wife wrote to me about his failings, of which she found his abysmal dancing to be quaint.  But the good gentleman had no talent for it, and poor Alexander never did learn as a boy."

It's a circular argument.  One that emphasizes Maria's point to begin with.  Alexander had grown up in poverty.  He'd never learned how to dance and that anyone thought that he  _ did  _ know seemed to emphasize the great heights he'd gone to to pretend he belonged with the 'gentry' in the first place.  "John knew how to dance, of course," Eliza continues.

"John?" Of course that bares explaining.  The amount of  _ 'Johns'  _ in the world, were frankly astonishing.  

"John Laurens, Alexander's best friend...he died in the war."

The snorting laugh is unexpected, and not the appropriate response that Eliza's used to receiving whenever mentioning a fallen soldier.  But Maria laughs none the less.  "The one with the foot fungus?" she clarifies when she catches sight of Eliza's discomfort.  

Eliza cannot help laughing either, and she does so gleefully.  Wrapping one arm around Phil's waist and carefully managing her reins in one hand, she stretches her back upwards.  Spine cracking into place as she reaches toward the sky.  Twist a little to the left.  A little to her right.  Her heels dig into Holly's sides some, and the old war horse just plods along.  Ignoring her poor seat and just walking forward.  Probably asleep.  Poor girl.  

She's getting stiff sitting like this.  And the sun is already cresting high enough in the sky that her stomach has started growling unhappily.  Crossing her reins so they do not separate, she gently loops them around the pommel of her saddle.  Twisting, she reaches into her saddlebag and feels around for some food.  Managing to withdraw an apple she holds it out to Maria, then finds a new one for herself.  With no knife to cut it, she bites at the fruit, tearing pieces off once she can get a grip on them, then handing the small nuggets to her son.  

Philip squeezes the pieces between his fingers.  Bites with small little bites.  Shivering and coughing around it.  Apples are not ideal for this, and she watches him.  Waiting for him to choke.  But he manages the first bite reasonably well, so she feels confident enough to work on a second and third.  "I never met John," Eliza continues.  Digging at the apple with her nails.  "I didn't have the privilege to meet most of Alexander’s friends until after the war was over.  Even during our wedding he claimed no guests.  An embarrassment he apologized for several times over."  He'd been charming at their wedding though.  Nervous and uncertain, but still filled with the same desperate desire for everything to go right.  To fall into line just so.  "But he danced quite well at the wedding, against all odds. Refusing one misstep.  He never danced as well ever again.” 

Divesting the apple of any good bites for Phil, she eats the core in four solid bites.  Swallowing seeds and stem and all.  Still not sated, she digs back into the saddle bag for the salted meat they'd wrapped in linen.  Saved from a few nights prior.  She shares once more with Maria, then bites into her strip.  "Lafayette told me, in secret later, that John had Alexander dancing about for hours practicing steps and memorizing formations.  They made quite a pairing.  Apparently John was quite fetching playing a lady."  

Alexander had wandered in and caught the end of that particular story and had flushed so dark she'd thought he'd started to asphyxiate.  The good Marquis laughed uproariously at Alexander's embarrassment.  Teasing him far more than was strictly appropriate in front of mixed company, but finding no shame in doing so.  "They wrapped the arms of Lafayette's coat about John's waist to provide for the skirt hem, and apparently John would stamp on poor Alexander's toes every time he blundered."

She'd managed to make Susan and Maria both laugh again.  And Eliza feels  _ good.   _ It's been too long since she has had an occasion to share this story.  Her children have mostly heard it already.  Her family had laughed about it once she'd shared it.  She has few other friends or companions to share it with.  Martha Washington being the only other woman she knew who had relished in such tales...who had such stories of her own.

"The General happened upon them near midnight.  They'd been making such a racket, apparently, that he'd been beseeched by the young soldiers to please see to his  _ family's  _ disorderly conduct."

"No!" Maria gasped, still laughing.

"Yes!"  Eliza continued.  "So there strode Washington, uniform in perfect placement, hat tucked under his arm.  He strides into their lodging and he is presented with John dancing as a lady, makeshift skirt and all, and Alexander stumbling about indecently."

"What happened next?"

Swallowing her final bite of meat, Eliza wipes her fingertips off on her breeches and fetches her canteen.  Drinking a swallow before helping Phil do the same.  "The good General was far too pragmatic to find fault in John's tutelage.  He turned to Lafayette and informed him that if John or Alexander ever found which one was leading, to have him report for command promptly in the morning.  He then turned around and walked out.  The poor boys were quite distressed with embarrassment."  Maria shook her head, smile still firmly fixed on her features.  "Washington  _ did  _ apparently offer to teach Alexander afterwards, but he was far too stubborn a man to accept such... _ patronizing  _ patronage."

Sometimes her husband's stupidity had been as rampant as his intelligence.  Losing Washington had been another great blow to their family.  And one that had not been easily replaced.  Washington, then her first son, then her husband...all back to back within five years of each other.  Alexander had received the news quietly.  Had thanked the postman for delivering Martha's letter onto them.  Had sat in his study, pen in hand, and not written a word for hours.  "His life would have been so much easier if he'd only accepted Washington's favor," Eliza sighs.

There's a pause, and then Maria starts shaking her head.  "You don't understand."

Irritation bubbles in Eliza's chest.  She frowns at her companion.  A part of her in turns disbelieving and disproving.  She understood her husband very well.  Of course she understood him.  "He came from nothing,  _ Lady  _ Hamilton."  Here, the name sounds every bit as vulgar as a curse or a threat.  Eliza scowls at the sound of it.  Displeased.  "Had he accepted the General's patronage, everything he did would be in question."

"It already was, could not he have found some measure in peace in knowing he was loved?"  For Eliza never doubted the Washingtons' love for their family.  Had delighted in tea with Martha.  In penning letters and receiving their tokens.  In having them in their home.  The General had been unfailingly kind to them all, and she struggled to understand why Alexander always lost his casual charm and friendliness in place of stiff formality before both Washington and his wife.

"If he found life difficult without Washington's patronage, could you imagine how hard it would have been  _ with it?" _

"The General never would have allowed such talk.  It would—"

"—Have happened no matter what.  His merit would’ve been all on Washington's word.  Not his own."

"But what would that have mattered?"

Maria sighs, long and drawn out.  "As I said.  You don’t understand."  Eliza wants to press for more information.  Wants to ask what more she needs to know.  What else there is to understand.  Patronage has been a part of their society for as long as Eliza's known.  It's always been there.  Without a patron, you mean nothing.  So why not accept a champion? Older and wiser? More practiced?  "Don't you ever feel invisible?"

Her companion asks the question without even knowing Eliza's thoughts.  She asks it while looking straight ahead.  Mind forward.  Thoughts organized.  Eliza needs to pause.  Analyze and reflect.  She has no time to do so.  

Maria continues, "It's never good enough to have someone say  _ you’re the best.   _ Not for you, not for them.  Someone's always doubting.  A patron could go up and say 'Alexander's the best dancer there is,' and folks'll believe it 'cause that's what the patron says.  Don't make it true.  Don't change the fact that Alexander's the worst dancer this side of the Hudson River.  And folks  _ know _ that.  Know full well that what a patron says don't make things right.  They be looking at him like he’s gonna mess it all up anyway.  And they be right to do it.  Your patronage means  _ nothing.   _ And on top o' being called a loyalist and a traitor.  He'd be a  _ fraud." _

That wasn't how patronage was supposed to work.  Eliza feels her brain tingle at the notion.  That's not what patronage was meant to be.  She could see how it'd be perverted to such an extent.  But...it was love.  Trust and belief.  Assistance and support.  She tells Maria as much, and Maria rolls her eyes once more.  "No," she says firmly.  "You gotta listen to patrons.  Gotta do what they say because they know best.  Gotta respect 'em and treat 'em right.  And they'll do the same to you in the end.  Ain’t you ever had someone put words in your mouth you don't mean?  That you don't want to say.  But you gotta because they're more important than  _ you _ are?"

Yes.  All the time.  

When she sits in her own home and is incapable of speaking for herself because no one listens to her.  Because she's not the one that matters in the conversation.  Her father is.  Her brothers are.  Her husband was.  They knew better.  

"Sometimes you just wanna talk for yourself, you know?  Using your own words.  Doing your own thing.  Being who you are.  Without someone else telling you how to talk or how to dress or how to wear your clothes.  Say all you like about not being Lords and Ladies, but you’ve got your patronage horse shit stacked higher than a cathedral.  So don’t you be blaming him for saying no.  I’d’ve said no too."

Eliza doesn't really know what to say to that.  It's going to take her time to unpack it.  Analyze each part of it and come up with an appropriate feeling or assertion.  She nods her head slowly.  Showing that she heard Maria's words.  Then fumbles through her next offer.  "I...can teach you how to dance if you'd still like to learn." 

Maria smiles back.  "Then I can show 'em all I know how to dance without you or anyone else telling 'em I could."  She could. Eliza tells her as much.  Clearly satisfied with that proclamation, Maria nods.  "I think I'd like that a lot, Lady Hamilton."

It's settled then.

One day, Maria is going to learn how to dance, and Eliza's going to teach her.


	10. Wraiths

Susan starts to fit sometime in the early afternoon.  She manages a tiny groan before her head lolls back onto her mother's shoulder.  Her body stiffens and jerks.  Unlike Phil, who Eliza could hold with reasonable ability on top of Holly's sturdy back, Susan was far too big to be flailing on Maria's gelding.  The horse startles.  Head rearing back and hooves dancing as he twists about in an attempt to see what's happening.

Phil makes a noise of confusion as Eliza leans over and snatches the reins from Maria's hands.  She gives them a mighty jerk.   _ "Woah!"  _ she orders the horse sharply, even as Maria tries to dismount.  It's fast and messy.  Holly waiting patiently as any good war horse would do.  Completely unbothered by the sudden changes in position and posture.  But the gelding is swaying his rump to the left and to the right.  Maria can't seem to manage holding onto Susan and getting off without her daughter conscious enough to assist.

Seeing no other option, Eliza wraps her own reins around the pommel.  Tells her son to stay still, and then dismounts.  Her son wraps his tiny hands around the pommel.  Stares at her with wide eyes.  Filling tears.  Frightening easily.  Pushing Holly back a few paces, Eliza winces as she finds herself standing between both horses with nowhere to go.  Holly, so far, has stayed perfectly still.  Watching the drama without much thought.

Taking a deep breath, Eliza pushes the gelding's shoulder.  Urging it to the left in hopes of giving them more room to work.  He goes where she directs.  Susan still thrashing atop him.  But with more room, Eliza can now spare an arm to brace Susan's back as Maria struggles to get off.  Can balance her in the spare moments between Maria swinging her leg over, and Maria reaching up to catch her.

Susan's dragged from the horse.  Eliza cannot see her fall, but she hears Maria's gasping breath as she catches her daughter's weight against her chest.  Hears as Maria stumbles badly, nearly tripping on herself as she tries to steady her seizing child.  Shifting her grip, Eliza holds the gelding steady with one hand on his reins, and the other hand on Holly's reins.

Her own horse moves to tap her with her nose, and Eliza spares her half a glance before lifting her gaze to her son.  Phil's never sat alone on a horse before.  His little feet dangle too high in the saddle, nowhere near the stirrups.  He'd likely fall immediately should Holly start walking.  Should he start to fit as well.  Eliza smiles at her boy.  "You doing okay?"  she asks him.   He shrugs his little shoulders.

Lips twisting up in a sob.   He rubs at his eyes.  Smearing dirt across his puffy cheeks as a whine starts pulling up from his throat.  He coughs around the cry, and Eliza's frozen as she stares at him.  "Phil—Phil, sweetheart.  It's going to be okay.  Phil?  Phil?"  He's not listening to her.  Just starts crying now in earnest.  Making grabby hands toward her that she cannot hope to respond to.  The gelding jerks in her hand, and she's distracted.  Must refocus herself to keep the horse from taking flight.

Hidden from view, she can only listen as Susan's limbs thrash.  As Maria rests her daughter on the ground alone before hurrying to the bags to find the eucalyptus.  Maria hesitates as she goes to the bag between the horses, catches sight of Eliza.   Still frozen in fear as Philip sobs and tries to reach for her.  Mere moments away from tipping over himself.  Licking her lips, Maria reaches up and plucks Phil from the saddle.

"There you are, Philly.  There you are.  Your fine ain’t you?  Your fine.  Be a big boy, now, yes?  Be a big boy."  Maria sooths Eliza's son naturally, even as she disappears back around the horse.  "Tie 'em down, Lady.  If you could."  It's the most sound idea, and Eliza breathes out a sigh of relief.  Quickly walking both horses off the road and to the tree line.  Holly doesn't tend to wander or stray, so Eliz drops her reins and keeps her mind on the gelding.  Quickly adjusting the reins and making a haphazard hitching post out of a small tree.  Once secured, she turns and addresses Holly.  Leading her a few steps farther before doing her up the same.

Finally free from her burden, she rushes over to Maria and the children.  Phil's sobbing openly now, and squirming badly as Maria attempts to calm him and ease her daughter's pain at the same time.  Reaching for her son, Eliza lifts him up.  His arms encircle her neck and she rocks him.  Telling him it's all right.  They're fine.  Susan's fine.  It's all right.

Susan, is in fact,  _ not  _ fine.  Her back is arching up off the ground.  Her eyes are entirely rolled back in her head.  She's gasping for breath.  Her limbs are flailing left and right.  Shaking all the while.  Maria is spreading the eucalyptus about Susan's body.  Drawing a line under her nose and around her mouth.  Dabbing it along her chest.  Susan's blouse has been pulled down, and Maria is applying the oil wherever she can find excuse to do so.  Fear gripping her profoundly.

Looking back, Eliza realizes that it's been some time since the event started to begin with.  Whole minutes have passed.  They're nearing the quarter hour mark.  Yet the shaking hasn’t stopped, and if anything only continue to persist.  Maria's taken to pleading with Susan to please stop.  Just be hush now.  Please?  Each request only encourages Phil to cry harder.  With more anxiety and despair.

Rocking her son in her arms, Eliza does the only thing she can think of.  She starts humming.  The tune is meaningless.  The words hardly consequential.  One of those early piano pieces that she'd been taught before she'd improved her technique.  Something small and simple that children always make up words to, because the real words are in Latin most like.  And no child enjoys the sound of Latin.  

Sitting down next to Maria, back leaned against a tree, Eliza hums the song as best she can.  Rocking Phil and holding her breath.  Praying with each note that Susan will soon settle.  Phil's arms tighten around her neck, and she can feel his tear stained cheek press against her own more insistently.  Moisture settling about her skin and marring it like a brand.  She draws her knees up and holds him tight.  Waiting for the moment that he too will start fitting.  For the moment when reality sets in and she understands fully that there is nothing here for them.  There is no chance for salvation.  There is only the promise for death.

_ "Up inside the little house, down along the road.  Mrs.  Mary little mouse, runs her way back home,"  _ Maria sings suddenly, voice cracking with tears of her own.  Startled, Eliza looks up at the woman.  It's a variation she's heard before.  She's certain the Angelica used to sing it to the children as they practiced needlepoint in the parlor.   _ "Winter willow cold and tired, winter swallow flies away.  Mrs.  Mary in the briars, sings her son each day." _

It's a round, Eliza thinks.  One verse meant to roll over the other.  Culminating in a unison at the end.  She stops humming wordlessly as Maria continues, slowly finding her place as Maria begins the next verse.  Maria's fingers stroke her daughter's cheeks as they continue.  And the song does seem to help.  If nothing else, it keeps Eliza from thinking too hard on the futility of their situation.  It distracts Phil from his tears.

_ "Up inside the little house, where spring flowers grow.  Mrs.  Mary little mouse, find the water flow.  Winter willow melts so slowly, summer spring comes near.  Mrs.  Mary aren't you lovely, heralds in good cheer." _

Call and response.  The song starts up again.  Circles back in and around itself.  Minutes pass, and finally Susan's flailing starts to slow.  Her eyes roll back where they belong.  Her sweat stained face stays pale, but it no longer seems to be balancing on the edge of death.  Sickly green fading from around her lips.  Maria lets out an long breath of air.  She hunches over her daughter.  Hands bracketed on either side of her head.  Leaning down, she kisses Susan's brow and she whispers quiet words of thanks to anyone who could be listening.

Philip's fright seems to have abated.  His tears have stopped.  He's turned sleepy against Eliza's body.  Fragile energy sapping entirely as he lets his head rest and his body slip into relaxation.  Eliza lifts her head up toward the sky, and flinches.  The sun has started to descend.  They have only precious few hours remaining before night falls and they're left outside in the dark.  "Maria..." she whispers softly.  Not sure how to discuss the inevitable problems that await them.

"I know," Maria replies.  "I know already..." She closes her eyes, then settles back on her heels.  Looks up from Susan's still body, and meets Eliza's eyes.  She's just as scared as Eliza is.  Perhaps more so after Susan's sudden decline in health.  "We're not gonna make it in time."

No.  They're not.  The map hadn't shown any settlements or outposts in this area.  And wandering aimlessly in hopes of finding a hutch would be akin to courting disaster.  They could not lose themselves in the wilds.  There needed to be an alternative that they could look for.

Standing up, Eliza walks to Holly's bags.  Feels about inside until she finds the books.  She withdraws the  _ Bestiary  _ in particular, and returns.  When last she looked, it had been sparse on night walkers, but desperation is a powerful motivator to try again.  To review one final time in hopes that she may have missed something important.

Flipping through the pages, she grimaces as she finds pages and pages of documentation on gremlins, gnomes, faeries, selkies, centaurs, and minotaurs.  Alexander's short hand notes fill each corner.  He argues with someone else occasionally amongst the pages, but she's neither the time nor care at the present to solve that particular mystery.  Instead, she navigates the book backward and forward.  Confirming what they already knew.  There was no guide in the book for how to manage the night.

Furious with herself, for certainly Alexander had such knowledge in his library, Eliza sets the book to the side.  She shouldn't have left as quickly as she had.  She should have planned ahead.  Of course there would have been times she'd need to spent a night in the dark.  Of course she'd need to be prepared for such an eventuality.

But growing up, she'd pressed her face against the windows of her home and she'd looked out into the night.  She'd seen monsters in the shadows and only been told one thing: do not open the doors or step outside.  Stay within the building for as long as the sun stays settled in the ground.  When it rises, you may as well.  But the night is no place for the living.

"We need ta set up a camp," Maria tells her.  "Wit' a fire ring.  Get 'nough wood to last through the night.  So long as we got a fire, they can't cross it."

She's right of course.  It's why the towns always light rings in circles around themselves.  Why they always burn candles.  So long as there's a fire, the wraiths won't attack them.  At least.  They shouldn't.  Ghosts and specters were far less restricted, but if Rachel was anything to go by...so long as you didn't intend them harm they weren't likely to harm you in turn.

Settling Phil down by Maria's side, Eliza draws herself up to her full height.  "Wait here," she requests.  "I will find us some wood."  Maria nods slowly.  Biting her lip and wishing Eliza good fortune.

It feels strange, to leave them behind on the side of the road.  But the strangeness soon shifts into a need for supplies.  She cannot squander the precious few hours they have left.  The sun is fast descending, and they need to have a camp set up with all the proper protections in place.

Scanning the ground, Eliza snatches up twig after twig.  She holds them in her arms.  Humming about Mrs.  Mary mouse as she gathers her first bushel.  All the while searching for a better place for them to camp.  Right off the road seemed dangerous.  Anyone or anything could happen upon them, and they need no more disturbances in their lives.

She managed to locate a flat area that would be serviceable within the first few minutes.  There even appears to be a ring already dug into the ground from a previous traveler's time here.  Quickly depositing her collected sticks, she returned to Maria and the children.  Informing them of her discovery.  Moving the horses first, Eliza tied them off to a new post, before returning to fetch Phil.  "I need you to stay here with Holly, all right?" she asks him softly.  He stares at up at her.  Wide eyes blinking uncertainly.  "Holly's going to take good care of you, but you need to stay here so I can help Maria with Susan.  Do you understand?"

"Uh-huh..." he bites his lip.  Brown eyes starting to fill with tears again.  She settles him on the ground near the sticks, and she fetches Alexander's book once more.  Presses it into his hands.  He can't read it.  He's far too young.  But he can look at the pictures and he can press his fingers to the pages.  

"I'll be right back," she swears.

Leaving him behind feels like a vice grip around her heart.  She imagines Alexander himself scowling at her and chastising her for being so reckless with not only his horse, but their son.  Shame fills her as she quickly returns to Maria.  Leans down to help hoist one of Susan's arms over her shoulder, as Maria does the same on Susan's other side.  They heave her upwards.  Dragging her numb legs through the trees.  They walk slowly.  Struggling over misshapen roots and difficult terrain.  

But the walk is quick.  It ends as quickly as it started, and Phil is still there.  Book in hand and eyes wide as they approach.  They settle Susan on the ground.  Start to pull saddles and saddlebags off the horses.  Both animals are tethered firmly inside the ring's outline, and Eliza checks and double checks there's no way for them to wander on the opposite side of their perimeter.

With both children more or less settled for the moment, Maria helps Eliza find more wood for the fire.  They collect as much as they can.  Everything from the smallest of twigs to the thickest logs.  They stack their collection in the center of their camp, then hurry out to go find some more.  Eliza's muscles ache badly as she bends down for handful after handful.  Her back is far too tight.  Her legs and arms are cramped.

"Have you ever seen a wraith?"  Eliza asks Maria as they work.

Her companion takes a few moments to answer.  Seemingly caught up in her task and unaware a question had been asked in the first place.  Eliza's tempted to ask again, in case that may be the matter, but Maria opens her mouth before she can try.  "I have," Maria confides.   "A few times."  

Maria's face twists unpleasantly at the memory.  Her lips purse and her nose scrunches.  As if she smelled something so rancid she could taste it in the air, and wished to be rid of the foul stench.  "What are they like?"

It's one thing to hear an owl hooting in the forest, but another thing altogether to actually see the bird in question.  Much the same, Eliza's heard wraiths and spooks since she could first remember, but aside from a rustle out her window—she's never truly laid eyes on the creatures.  She has no notion of what they truly look like.  Books attempt to drawn them for the common man to understand.  Paintings depict them from time to time.  But the subject matter is not often spoken about, and she cannot help but have a cloudy image in her head where her description should reside.

"They're awful," Maria tells her succinctly.  "Wicked skeletons floating through the air, still wrapped in the shrouds they'd been buried in.  No flesh nor muscle.  No sinew to hold the bones in place.  Just them floating about about.  Shrieking loud and horrid.  Fingers reaching out to tear you to the ground.  You know how wraiths are made right'?"

She doesn't.  She's just heard the children's songs and they poems.  Seen the paintings and made up an idea after the fact.  She wishes the  _ Bestiary  _ had more information on them.  Though she suspects the reason is the  _ Bestiary  _ is a book on living creatures.  And night walkers are inherently all dead.

Maria doesn't wait for her to reply.  Just keeps talking anyway.  Distracted.  Rambling as if it'll make things easier for her as well.  "They're dead who want to live.  Who'll trade anything they can for a bit o' life.  I've seen 'em when they get their hands on a living being.  You know what that looks like?"

"No," Eliza replies.  She's got her arms full now, but she waits to return to the camp.  Watches Maria finish her own collection.  

When Maria turns, she continues talking.  "They dig their fingers into the body, and they're rabid like dogs.  Scratching and biting.  Tearing you completely apart.  Think they think that if they can get to the heart of you they'll get your life as their own.  Maybe it'll make them real people again."

Eliza shivers at the idea.  "Has that ever happened?" she asks softly.  They walk quickly back to their encampment.  Phil has moved to sit near Susan.  Pressed close to her side.  Biting his lip and still looking terribly uncomfortable and afraid.

"A wraith coming back from the dead?  Don't know.  Just know that they try to do whatever they can to do just that."

They drop their loads, then hurry back into the woods.  Eager to find more sticks.  Any kindling at all.  "Not all dead do it though," Eliza murmurs quietly.

"No.  Just the angry.  The damned.  The ones won't don't care 'bout nothing except getting' that second chance.  Those that die without no priest.  It’s why all them soldiers be on death marches all the time.  Reenacting their deaths non stop.  Not realizing they already dead."

Washington had made it a practice sometime near the beginning of the war that whenever they'd known they'd have a battle, for a priest or chaplain to bless all the soldiers.  Give them their last rights so that if they fell, they'd not be tied to a march.  Waking each night with no notion they'd died the night before.  Trapped in a loop.  Facing a death with no deliverance over and over again.

"Death marches aren't the same as wraiths," Eliza says softly.  Those soldiers were re-enacting wars.  They remained the exact same people they were in death as they were in life.  They had personalities and memories, could make new choices each evening.  Start new conversations if they so chose.  They couldn't alter the fact they would eventually die, but they could deviate from the script and engage with those around them before continuing on their way.

It's why they called it 'death marches'.  The soldiers' narratives may change, but the end result always led to death.  Their existences, and experiences were always made from bloodshed and carnage.  And they had no escape from it.

Wraiths were individualized.  They weren't tied to the place that they died.  They could travel endlessly.  Go wherever they saw fit to travel.  And they hunted in packs.  Travelled in groups so they could more easily tear into their victims.

They had a ferocity to them that bordered on animalistic.  Though animals had fear.  They calculated.  They planned.  Wraiths didn't do any of that.

They were terrifying.

Eliza starts picking up her bundles faster and faster.  Desperate to get their fire started sooner rather than later.  When dusk starts to settle in, they manage to accumulate what appears to be every stray stick in the wood.  It still seems far too few.  Maria bites at her left thumbnail as she inspects it all, but shakes her head and mumbles that the fire needs to get started sooner rather than later.

Lying out the sticks in the fire ring, they prepare for the long burn.  Each ring needs to be dug deep enough into the ground to not rise up and cross over choking the life out of those within the circles.  There needs to be dirt and sand mounted on each side as a deterrent.  But it needs, also, to be wide enough to allow the fire to burst high into the air.  Protecting them from the wraiths who would attempt to cross their threshold.

Maria talks as they work.  Digs into the ring with her hands and setting it in proper.  Then she tells Eliza her which twigs need to go first, teaching her how to make her kindling function properly.  They need to get the fire started  _ and then  _ they can start adding the larger logs.  

Eliza's kept fires in her houses all her life.  She understands how to build a fire.  But she finds that anxiety is making her hands shake badly.  She reaches, foolishly, for the thicker sticks first in hopes of just jump starting the process.  Maria should be scolding her for her behavior, but instead she patiently allows Eliza to make a mistake.  Gently corrects her with calm words.

Maria picks up their tinder box and strikes the sparks into life.  Leaves ignite and she blows them up into a fire.  They spark the fire in several places around the ring, watching as the heat slowly begins to travel about the circle and meets up with itself.  Then, safely within the circle, they sit side by side.

Watching quietly as the sun finally sets and the screams of the night walkers start.


	11. Accents

Eliza cannot convince herself to sleep.  She and Maria smiled for the children.  They read some of the  _ Bestiary _ out loud for them.  Laughing at some of Alexander's shorthand, musing over the other set of scribbles Eliza still couldn't identify.  The slant of the letters seemed purposeful and precise.  Someone with good breeding and education.   But considering whom Alexander spent time with, the answer was hardly obvious.

She encouraged Phil to go to sleep.  Get some rest.  Isn't he tired?  And her son did.  Curled up in her lap.  Head against her shoulder.  Arms hanging at his sides.  Eliza keeps one arm wrapped around him.  Uses the other to flip through  _ Herbalism _ .  The  _ Bestiary _ long since losing its appeal.  Maria sits against her side.  Their shoulders pressed together.  Susan's head is in Maria's lap, and they're all wrapped in close.  Trying to pretend that they cannot hear the shrieking of the dead as they wake to walk the night.

They pretend very badly.

Sharp noises cut through the air, and with each one—Maria flinches.  Eliza freezes.  They inspect the fire circle for breaks.  And they cannot sleep.  Every so often, out of the corner of her eye, Eliza can see the flutter of something.  Like a cloak.  Each time she lifts her eyes to look, though, the figure is gone.  Vanished in the smoke.

Eliza's never been in a fire circle this small before.  The smoke is all but suffocating.  It clings to their skin.  Clings to their clothes.  Seeps into their hair, their lungs, their eyes.  She can breathe, but the air is thick.  Threatening.  A balm and a poison in one.

Shivering against a chill that does not exist, Eliza trains her eyes on the pages of the book.  Alexander's notes curl in and around the texted print of the book.  They're comforting in their own way.  A little bit of her brave soldier standing there beside them.  

"It's not good for both of us to be awake," Maria tells her.  

Eliza's thumb slides between the pages of her book and she closes it.  Marking her spot.  "Holly will follow wherever you lead," she murmurs.  "You get your rest, and she'll lead me along after you."

"Your horse don't follow—she sleepwalks, and having you both sleeping at the same time ain’t gonna make it better."  Maria has an outstanding talent for ruining Eliza's plans.  She moves her hand and places it on Eliza's knee.  "It’s gonna be all right, all right?"

Eliza tries to believe that.  She does.  She pushes the corners of her lips upward, and leans a little closer to Maria's arm.  Holds up the book so they can both look at the pages.  A loud creak snaps through the woods, and Eliza flinches.  Phil mumbles against her neck and she shifts him so he’s laying against her body and not her arms.  She adjusts the book so she can hold it and him more securely, turning pages with her thumb. 

Maria’s turned her hand over, offering politely and quietly.  She takes her up on the offer. Her hand slides around Maria’s and they lean closer together, trying in vain to use the words as a way to block out all the rest.  Each screech and strange cackle that sounded, is met with their hand squeezing tighter together.  Squeeze and release.  Squeeze and release.  

“Tell me about them other things you got at the quack.  Wasn’t all you-kah-lip-tus.”  She takes her time on the word, sounding it out slowly even though Eliza’s certain she’s heard her say it right before.  Cognizant of her past failures most likely, though Eliza wishes she knew how to correct that.  How to make things easier for Maria.  She’d offer to help Maria speak better if she’d like, but she didn’t know if it would cause her any offense. 

Now isn’t the time.  Maybe later.  Still, she slows down how she talks, emphasizing certain sounds to provide the appropriate pronunciation.  “Yarrow, peppermint, ginger, and fennel seed,” Eliza recites.

“Don’t do that.” Eliza flinches at the command.  It comes harsh and abrasive, and she meets Maria’s eyes with apprehension.  Maria’s fingers still hold on to her hand.  They don’t let go, and Maria isn’t showing any signs of taking her anger any further than her words.  But she scowls at Eliza as if she would very much  _ like  _ to do more and knows she can’t.  “I’m not stupid.  I can understand it when you read your book.”  

Maria’s words are flat.  Accentless.  They sound just as normal as anything that she herself would have said.   She says them without care, as if she had been holding them back from the moment they met.  Hiding the knowledge she could speak quite well enough.  Shame fills Eliza for being tricked so openly.  She wishes she could pull her hand away, but she fears doing just that.  Instead, she stays still.  Continuing to meet Maria’s eyes, though her heart pounds quickly and her breath feels tight.

“You're doing it cause I don’t talk as good as you always,” Maria informs her briskly.  Some of the tension fades.  The accent has returned, and it settles naturally about Maria’s shoulders.

“It’s the…proper way to speak.  I’d only intended to—” 

“—change who I am.  Lady, you’re a  _ lady.  _ And that’s fine if you wanna speak like you speak.  I ain’t gonna fault you for that.  But I’m me.  And I’ve been me my whole life.  And I’m not gonna stop being me because you come along with your books and your practices.  You understand me just fine don’t you?” 

It’s a trick question.  A trap that Eliza knows she’s going to fall into, but can’t help doing anyway.  “Yes,” she agrees. 

“And you understand all the rest don’t you?  The inn keeps the stable boys the shop hands the apothecary?” 

“Yes.” 

“And I expect you understood your friend Lafayette no?” 

There it is.  The trap.  Eliza feels her face heating up so hot that she could have saved them from the wraiths herself.  Stood before them all and sent them away by her sheer embarrassment alone.  “Yes.  I understood le Marquis.” 

“But he don’t even speak  _ proper English.  _  He’s got a worse accent than I ever did, and he probably spoke all kinds of French shit in the middle of his sentences ta boot.”  All true statements.  “You ever correct General Washington?  He had an accent.” 

Southern, of course.  Far more drawling than Maria’s even.  It held the airs of a man who understood how the language was meant to be spoken, but at the end of the day it mattered little.  He and Martha both retained the drawl of the south.  Just as Jefferson did.  Just as many of their southern colleagues and acquaintances did.  She’d never once presumed to correct them.  Never once suspected that they needed correcting.  Accepted that they spoke the way they did, and made conversation with them as se would anyone else. 

“Why didn’t you say anything to them hmm?” 

_ Because they were intelligent, _ Eliza thinks horribly.  The thought is terrible.  Truly terrible.  Cruel even. She can no longer maintain eye contact.  Must look away and duck her head.  Avoid the heat of Maria’s stare as she expects an answer.  Prompting her with a squeeze of their hands in order to speak.  “Because…I had not thought they required it,” Eliza manages as politely as she can. 

“You thought they knew what they were talking about and didn’t think it important.  Well maybe you should accept that with me as well.  I may not talk like no fancy parlor lady, but I speak the King’s English same as you.  And it may sound different from you, but  _ you’ve got an accent too I’m afraid.”  _

Frankly, the oddly British sounding lilt to Maria’s words only makes the experience so much more horrifying.  She bites her lip.  Tries not to overcome the shame that’s all but bursting from her skin.  Maria keeps at it though, not stopping for one moment.  _ “You talk as though each word must be lifted at the end.  Up and up it goes.  Swinging to the sky like a leaf on the wind.  So bright and light and tight!”  _

Maria squeezes her hand at the last line, and Eliza glances up.  Is comforted immediately by the grin she’s being given.  The tension fades, shifts back a little as she accepts the teasing for what it is.  “Well… _ yee _ soundeh likeh—” Maria bursts out laughing, and Eliza echoes it.  Tears come to her eyes as the tight twisting turn of the conversation seeks relief in some form. “Oh good gracious, I’m not sure I can continue.”

“Yeah, yeah, jus’ like that.  You sound ridiculous.  Why you always end your words going up?  God—sounds awful don’t it?” 

To be fair, Eliza’s never analyzed her own accent in comparison to others.  Her ear had been trained for so long to accept how she spoke as the correct and proper way, she only recognized other people’s dialects when they were different.  As if her voice was the standard all must conscribe to.  “Alexander had an accent,” Maria reminds softly.  Gently.  She squeezes Eliza’s hand again, and Eliza nods her head.  

He had.  It’d been subtle.  Something he’d trained himself endlessly to correct.  It didn’t come out often.  Jefferson had once brazenly stated that no man could ever accept Alexander as a part of their congress when he sounded like a West Indie slave boy.  It hadn’t gone over well.  Alexander had promptly spent the remainder of the evening eviscerating the man in every way he knew how.  Even Washington had apparently stated that Jefferson came perilously close to a duel challenge.  One that may or may not have ended any better than the one that killed Alexander in the end. 

Alexander’s accent only carried over when exhaustion pulled at him so hard he lost all sense of time and space.  When he blinked up at her wearily late at night and tried to convince her that he didn’t need sleep.  He only need his work.  His consonants became almost hacking at the ends.  His vowels slightly more guttural.  He growled through his words and glared at the pages before him. 

“People always think an accent makes up how smart or good someone is,” Maria tells Eliza softly.  “But Alexander had an accent and he’s one of the smartest men I ever did meet.  You’ve got one, and your one of the goodliest ladies I ever met.  A bit awkward.  Bit shy.  Insecurity and all.  But you’re a good lady, Eliza Hamilton.  One of the best.  I’ve got and accent too.  It’s not yours.  An it’s not Washington or Lafayette’s.  But it’s mine.  And I’m smart too.  I can read.  I can write.  I can understand.  I’m not dumb.  You don’t gotta read a book like I’m a child learning words for the first time.  You just gotta read normal.  I’ll tell you if I don’t understand.  You get me?” 

“I get you,” Eliza replies.  “I apologize for causing offence.  I’d only thought…with the dancing…”

“That I’d wanna be like y’all?”  Maria snorts.  “I wanna know how to dance.  I don’t wanna  _ be  _ you in your fancy houses with your ridiculous rules.  I jus wanna have enough money to get by.  So Susan can get a nice husband and be comforted all her life.  Don’t gotta worry about no street boy putting a baby in her belly and calling her wife when she’s got her hopes and dreams on someone else.  I wanna be me.  Just me.  And I like how I talk.  It’s who I am.  I’m not gonna apologize or start trying to make excuses for who I am.  I’m beautiful.  And I talk beautiful.  And that’s all there is to it.  If I want to change?  I’ll ask for help.  But I don’t want it one second before.” 

She’s right of course.  “I will endeavor to respect your decision,  _ Lady  _ Maria,” Eliza replies.  Maria grins broadly and nods her head.  Squeezes Eliza’s hand once more, and Eliza starts from the beginning. 

“The apothecary gave me yarrow, peppermint, ginger, and fennel seed.”  Motioning to the book, she flips it over and with one hand starts pulling pages back.  Y easier to find since it’s so close to the end. 

The sketch that’s been provided on the right page is heavily annotated.  Alexander’s neat pen making marks and notations coming off of hyphens with various notes and suggestions.  She skims over them.   _ Yellowish white by nature, stalk is of a chartreuse.  Bares resemblance to Queen Anne’s Lace.  Leaves are clustered in alternate arrangement.  Note the yellow center of the flower.   _

Eliza’s seen this page in particular before, and recognized the name when the apothecary had offered it to her.  When their children fell ill, as children do, she had seen Alexander consult this book with much dedication in hopes of finding a way to ease their ailment.  Yarrow had been one of many plants Alexander had become quite an authority on over the years.  Adding another skill set to his impressive repertoire.  

He’d made this particular note when she’d asked how to find it herself.  Embarrassed by the fact she struggled to tell the difference between both plants.  He’d not judged her though, merely agreed that the flowers held a similar constitution and hurried to explain the difference.  

“That’s odd,” Maria says softly.  Startled from her musing, Eliza looks to her companion. 

“What is?”  she asks. 

Maria pulls her arm up from around Susan’s body. She points to a note that’s been tucked into the corner of the left page.  Eliza had been so distracted by the sketch and its reminders she’d failed to notice it.  Or, if she had seen it, simply discounted it as unimportant.  Just another note, one she must have seen a hundred times before. 

She’s not seen this one, though.  The penmanship is poor.  Although unquestionably Alexander’s, there’s something hasty to its quality.  Something that she cannot quite put her finger on.  There are a few streaks along the page.  As though he’d accidentally inked his shirt sleeve and not noticed.  Dragging the sleeve across parchment as he scribbled in his notes.  Harried and unaware of his molestation. Leaving behind words that are fragmented and harried.  

She tries to recall his shorthand and what he used for abbreviations.  Most of his personal writings had been written, while not in code, but with a barely legible set of stunted letters that meant much to him though little to anyone else.  _ Sp. w Ned temp only no terminus? _

“Ned Stevens was like a brother to Alexander,” Eliza explains softly.  “He must have spoken to him about yarrow at some point.”  The timing is strange though. Thinking back, Eliza’s certain that the entry could only have been added in the scant few months prior to Alexander’s death.  She’d seen this page before.  And without this very entry.  Its hastiness seems bizarre and out of place.  Awkward and mysterious all things considered.  

All other notes they’ve read thus far had been perfectly understandable.  There had been comments on effectivity, composition, side effects, etc.  But the note here seems to be unrelated to anything.  Yarrow  _ did  _ cure fever.  It had done so when they’d caught yellow fever, and Ned had used it on them to assist with their recovery.  Temperatures dropping to reasonable levels before too long. 

Further, Alexander had rarely been so careless as to damage his tomes as he worked.  He’d have been furious with the streaks he left behind.  Though she can recall no utterances of complaint from having caused a mess.  She’d have remembered it, she’s certain. “Why’s he say it’s temporary?”  Maria asks slowly. 

Oh!  Eliza squints at the word.  Perhaps he  _ had  _ meant temporary.  So what would only be responding temporarily to yarrow?  She couldn’t even recall the last time that someone in their household had need of it.  Except for Phil.  Phil needed it now.  She scowls and shakes the thought from her head.  Alexander is not leaving her messages in his  _ Herbalism  _ book. 

Something flutters just outside her field of vision and she looks up.  Jumping badly when she sees a black cloak hovering just outside the fire circle.  Maria’s hand squeezes around hers, and they both stare at the figure.  It reaches forward, skeletal hand attempting to breach their ring, but it flinches back from the smoke and light from the fire.  Screeching loudly as it disappears back into the darkness.  

Little wonder she’s imagining ghosts when ghosts are all around. 

“I—I don’t know,” she stumbles forward, eager for the distraction from the creatures now visibly haunting them.  Maria’s hand tightens, and she returns the favor.  Both of them holding on as if it’s the only thing keeping them sane.

Maria dips her head closer to the page and squints at it in the flickering light of the fire.  Eliza watches her.  Determined to keep her gaze from following shadows in the night, she watches Eliza’s dark eyes follow the tracks of Alexander’s shirt sleeve.  Watches as Maria reaches out and starts turning pages on the book. 

The spine rests against Eliza’s knee.  Her right hand holding one side while Maria balances the other.  Turning pages with her left, their opposite hands still clasped so tight.  She stops turning the page discussing valerian root.  The same streaks are found here too.  The note just as haphazard.   _ Temp. works w Euc.  Not on own.   _

“Martha Washington used valerian with her daughter Patsy.  It and eucalyptus. I recall speaking with her on it on one occasion.”  Discussing Patsy and Patsy’s untimely death was something almost assuredly not done with Martha or George Washington.  They grieved so deeply for the loss of their lovely girl that merely speaking her name could bring about true sorrow within them.  But Martha had been musing the days she spoke to Eliza.  Had spoken without truly thinking, explaining the root as they worked to package up a messy workstation side by side.  

Increasingly it seems as though her husband’s notes are making less sense than they should be.  This knowledge is knowledge he should have already known.  Contradicting facts they’d embraced long before.  And yet, Maria keeps flipping pages.  Searching for more strange notes that are penned in tandem with the absent markings of a man likely too tired to realize he’d made a mess. Their answer, it seems, came finally in the form of one sentence.  One tucked in beside the title for the ‘usnea’ page.  

_ When is a plague not a plague?  _

There’s no answer to his question.  Or rather.  There is a black blot’s been branded onto the page.  A great dark shadow that coats it like a brand.  Eliza stares at the smear. Easily imagining how Alexander must have knocked his ink well onto the book and stained it and his sleeve.  But Maria takes the page daintily and flips it backward and forward.  Frowning at the book as though it’s preformed a magic trick. 

Perhaps it has. 

The dark ink has not seeped through the page to the other side. 

Alexander’s notes have.  Certainly.  One could easily discern where his frantic annotations have left impressions on the opposite pages.  But the thick inky darkness of the stain does not seep through. It stays only as a brand on one side. A haunting specter in its own right.  Nonsensical and unreal.  

“He was studying the plague before his death,” Maria whispers softly. 

Eliza hadn’t known that.  It’s unsurprising, in truth.  Alexander always dedicated himself to learning whatever he could on anything he could manage.  But he’d never discussed it with her.  And while the plague  _ had  _ existed prior to his demise, it hadn’t been nearly as prevalent as it was after his death.  

The wealthy families of New York hadn’t started to fall until long after Alexander was buried.  And yet, he’d tried to help them before he even knew how devastating the plague would be.  Eliza feels her eyes prickling with tears.  As with the yellow fever, he’d dedicated himself to helping anyone he could.  Even if they despised him for it.  Even if they didn’t understand why he cared.  “He just wanted to help them,” Eliza manages to get out.  Dropping her part of the book and rubbing at her eyes miserably. 

A great gust of wind blows hard through the trees, and Eliza lifts her head to watch as the fiery circle flickers badly, parts almost going out from the strong gust.  The wraith is back where it’d been before.  Watching them in its thick cloak.  Skeletal figure glimmering beyond the flames.  She can almost see the contours of its face.  Scant pieces of flesh dripping from the white bone beneath.  Horrific and awful.  A hole in its skull as though it’d been shot at some point and survived.  It screeches suddenly.  Wind growing more powerful with each passing second.  The horses both whinny loud.  Hooves clacking on the ground as they jerk against their posts. 

The stick pile is running low.  Already tonight they’ve needed to add it to the circle four times.  Urging the ring to stay alight just a little bit longer.  Hours have passed since the sun fell, and in summer the nights are short.  The sun will rise shortly, but the wraith is just there.  Watching them.  Encouraging the wind to attack their fire and push it out.  

Smoke fills the circle and Eliza coughs, wraps her arms around Philip’s head and tries to keep him from breathing in too much of the toxic air.  Maria does the same for Susan.  Phil starts to squirm.  Awake now from all the noise.  He’s crying against Eliza’s chest, and she feels his little hands moving to cover his ears.  Noise piercing through the drums.  Deafening him to all else. 

Susan shifts now.  Sitting up and covering her own ears.  Blinking feverishly as Maria starts to stand.  Eliza reaches for Susan.  Beckoning the young girl toward her.  The teenager moves slowly, crawling the few inches so that she can come to Eliza’s side.  They’ve not spoken much, but Eliza’s gratified to know the girl feels comfortable approaching her as her mother hurries to the sticks they have left, struggling to keep the fire going even as the wind picks up. 

It’s a futile effort.  Eliza knows it deep in her bones.  The flames keep flickering, mere moments away from snuffing out.  “Maria!”  she shouts, kissing Susan’s cheek and asking her to hold Phil.  The girl does just that.  Hugging the boy to her like she would her own brother.  Allowing Eliza’s babe to crush his skull against her breast and wriggle as frightened younglings always do. 

Maria meets Eliza’s eye and she bites her lip.  “We need to saddle the horses,”  Eliza tells Maria stiffly.  

Maria nods.  The wind keeps blowing faster, and they only have a few more moments to spare.  Hurrying as fast as they can, they heave the saddle blankets and saddles into place.  Eliza can feel her arms burning, but the toss is easier now than it had been a few days ago.  The pain in her limbs being conquered by sheer force of will.  She bridles Holly and Maria helps her with the books, food, and saddle bags.  

Susan takes a deep breath and struggles to her feet.  She’s still unsteady from her fit earlier.  She sways badly, but she’s standing.  Maria and Eliza help her up onto the horse, balancing her and hoisting.  Pushing and pulling where they can so she can get upright onto the saddle. 

Then, once there, Maria mounts.  Eliza lifts Philip up and Maria holds her son as she too gets onto her own horse.  Philip is passed back into her arms, and not a moment too soon. 

The wind blows horribly one last time.  

The wraith is still staring at them with all its promises of death and despair. The flames flicker out. Eliza and Maria kick their heels into their great steeds’ sides as the wraith begins its chase. 

Both horses burst forward. And together, they fly into the night.


	12. Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE REVIEW CHAPTER WARNINGS AT END OF CHAPTER FOR A SPOILER WARNING.

Holly rides like a cloud. Her long legs stretch out in front of her and her head reaches forward.  Neck stretching out as far as it can go.  Ears aimed precisely where she’s looking.   Eliza kicks her heels into Holly’s body.  She holds her son in one arm, and she imagines herself a soldier in a war. 

This is how her husband would have sat.  One hand in the reins.  One hand around the handle of his sword.  Shouting for his men to line up around him.  Charging headlong into battle.  Not a care in the world save his mission and his battle.  John Laurens on one side.  Gilbert Lafayette on the other.  The best of friends and the best of soldiers.  Riding forth on their great steeds to conquer all foes before them.  

They had weapons.  Guns and swords.  Armies surrounded them.  Multiplying their numbers.  They had support on all sides.  At night they had fires so strong that none could approach.  Valley Forge held many demons, but they’d never suffered wraiths.  Never needed to.  

No.  That’s not true. 

Eliza had stood in the doorway of their firstborn’s room.  She’d watched as Alexander paced fitfully in front of the window.  Watching the night as if the terrors would come.  As if they could break the city walls, cross the guards, cross the street lit streets, and find their bairn.  Alexander had been terrorized by wraiths in the past.  Both on the Isles he never spoke of, and during the war he conveniently forgot the stories about.  

She could piece together the tales from fragmented discussions not relevant.  He’d ridden through the night on countless occasions.  The only one brave enough to ride for Washington.  The only one fool enough to give it a try.  Eliza had asked once, why Washington had sent her husband on such dangerous missions.  Washington hadn’t the words to answer.  Martha pulled her aside and explained instead.  The General never asked Alexander to ride through the night.  He never requested that Hamilton fly in the face of danger and attempt to conquer the terrors.  Face the night walkers as if he could avoid their wretched grasp. 

He knew better than that. 

But Alexander did so anyway.  He always threw himself into the fray.  And often, John Laurens encouraged him.   _ They bring out the worst in each other,  _ Lafayette had told her once.  She could see her husband now.  Not truly.  Not like the ghost she’d longed hoped would appear.  Not like a specter she’d begged God to allow her to grasp. 

No.

But she could see the image of him in her mind.  Not a memory, but a fantasy.  A pretend sketch that she conjured up to show her exactly what he may have appeared as.  In his blue coat tails and slicked back hair.  Tied down in a knot at the nape of his neck.  Holly snorting fearlessly before him.   _ Let’s go on a midnight ride, eh Holly?  _ He’d ask, stroking her flanks.  And Holly, the mad beast, would agree. 

Eliza kicks her heels into Holly’s side, and Holly runs like she’s twenty years younger.  She stretches out her geriatric legs.  She huffs loudly and she gallops through the trees like no other horse has ever galloped before.  

Maria’s gelding is struggling to catch up, and still Holly flies.  There’s death on her tail and she has no interest in letting it catch her.  She’s a mad creature.  She’s every bit as fearless as Alexander always described, and Eliza can feel his faith in the horse.  Can see exactly how her husband survived the war. 

It had been no skill of his, if anything he had been begging for death since he first arrived in New York.  

Holly had saved him time and again.  She looked death in the eye time and again, and she reared up.  Stamped her feet into the dirt.  Snorted air like a dragon heaving fire and brimstone.  And said,  _ No. Not today. _

Eliza is a soldier riding into battle, sword in hand.  She is a spy flying through the night, missive pressed to her breast.  She is a mother, holding her son to her heart and urging her horse forward with ever bit of strength she has in her body.  She will not die today, and God help her— she will out run this wraith. 

Holly bursts from the trees.  Her hooves dig in, making the transition from crass to road easily.  She transitions her stride without so much as a break in her step.  Her back rides smooth and even.  Eliza’s seat is hardly altered.  She keeps her arm locked in around Phil.  Slaps the reins against Holly’s neck and scans the horizon. 

Even though they have one wraith chasing after them, it’s impossible to tell if they’re running toward another.  Maria shouts loudly, and Eliza turns her head to look.  The wind blows her hair askew, it wraps around her face and shrouds her in darkness.  She cannot see anything.  Black strands whip into her eyes.  She closes them and twists forward.  With her hands full, she she can’t wipe the locks from her face. 

Shaking her head left and right, she grimaces as Holly lets out a furious noise.  Slowing just a little as she provides mixed signals.  Jerking on the reins even as she keeps kicking her forward.  She clicks her tongue as fast as she can.  Smooches her lips.  Urges her go giddy-up, anything she can think of.  The end result, of course, is just her endless desire to  _ move move move move movemovemovemovemovemove— _

Maria’s gelding finally manages to pick up the pace.  They are riding side by side.  The night is growing loud all around them.  Eliza tries opening her eyes and can just barely make out the bends in the road.  They hardly seem to matter, Holly’s guiding them flawlessly.  Pumping her powerful legs forward.  Turning sharply.  Carrying them to safety as if it’s the last thing she will ever do.  She’s making their safety a priority, and all Eliza can do is beg her to work harder. 

A screeching noise sounds far too close to her head, and she twists. The wraith is just over her shoulder.  Skeletal face bright as snow.  Jaw dropping.  Hideous and laughing.  Hole in its head a mocking divot that proves just how immortal it is.  It reaches out to grab her.  She cannot help the scream of fright that tears itself form her lungs. 

Holly seems to push herself even further.  They are weightless son Holly’s back.  They are nothing to her proud and triumphant heart.  Holly is a force onto herself.  She gallops forward.  A titan meant for the gods to ride upon.  A valiant soldier who has seen battle and knows just how to manage it.  

Maria’s gelding is terrified.  Is running in a panic.  She and Susan are falling behind as it wears itself out from their combined weight.  But Eliza can just manage to see the whites of its eyes. She chants under her breath, “Come on, come on, come on, come on.”  Desperate for it to keep up.  To not falter under the pressure. 

Eliza tries to think of how many hours it’s been.  How long it’ll be until dawn rises.  It can’t be too much longer, can it?  But too much longer could be hours still yet.  And they don’t have hours.  Their horses can’t manage this pace for hours.  They need safety.  Shelter.  Anything.  

Scanning the horizon for the smallest hint of light, Eliza sees nothing.  Nothing but her hair whipping in her face.  The occasional thin line of light that shines down from the sky.  A moon casting shadows more than chasing them away.  Trees that tower on all sides.  The road that bends and twists, but shows no signs of leading them to safety. 

Phil is holding onto her as tight as he possibly can.  He’s just a child.  Just a small frightened child, so sick and so afraid.  He should be in bed, surrounded by doctors and loved ones.  Kissed on the cheek and treated with the most gentle affection.  He should have soups prepared for him in a kitchen.  Not jerky on the road.  He should have so much more than she’s been capable of fetching for him. 

A proper woman of her stature would have arranged a comfortable carriage and transport.  Would have afforded the guards and sold the house.  Would have done this right.  Not left home on a whim.  As if she could do anything to save her son.  As if this was helping him. 

Eliza’s secured his death days too soon.  She kicks Holly harder. The trees have started to pull back. Step away from the road.  There’s a clearing up ahead.  The road pours out into a great field. Grass is overgrown on all sides, but the road is patted down.  Dozens of travelers have used it before, and the horses shoot forward through the reeds. 

A black cloak flickers in and out of Eliza’s vision, she turns her head left and right.  Trying to see it, but is blind.  She can feel the icy chill of the wraith floating far too close.  Can hear it’s shrieking laughter as it scratches through the air.  Her breath catches in her throat.  Cool fingers wrap about her neck in a tight grip. And she does not know if it’s the wraith or her imagination.  Just knows she can’t draw breath and she’s staring out into a sea of darkness and all the world is blind. 

“MAMA!” Philip screams.  His little voice is so shrill.  She remembers the day he was born.  Remembers the feel of Alexander’s hand in her hair.  How child after child he’d been reprimanded by women for acting as both midwife and physician.  For teaching himself her body so intimately that he could be the one to hold their child when he first came into the world.  How he’d been terrified to ask if he would be permitted in her birthing chamber for their little Phil. 

Their first born still warm in the ground, her belly swollen with child.  He’d stumbled and collapsed at her feet, begged her for permission to join her.   _ Please don’t send me away.   _ She’d taken his hand, and they’d spent the night together.  He at her side, promising her he’ll not let anything happen to their final child.  Their chance to make it right. 

Phil part two.  Phil who isn’t going to die in some field with a gun in his hand, looking at a man almost twice age.  Both too foolish to back down.  Her little Phil is supposed to outlive her.  Be her shining star.  Give his older brother a chance to live past nineteen. 

He isn’t supposed to die like this. 

She doesn’t hear the wraith move.  Just feels the ability to breathe return to her at the same time that Maria slashes a stick toward her body.  Eliza has no idea when Maria got the stick.  Maybe before she even got on the horse?  Maybe she’d snapped it off a branch as she’d ridden by?  Eliza doesn’t know.   

She doesn’t have time to think.  The wraith screams.  Echoing calls seem to burst through the air all around.  Philip’s terrified shouting starts to increase.  He’s holding her so tight that she need not worry about the wraith stealing her breath, her son is doing it for them. 

The pain, when it comes, is indescribable.  Everything happens first, and the pain fades off until the end.  She doesn’t realize it’s her, nor that it’s  _ pain  _ until it has drowned out every other sensation.  She sees the fluttering of black cloaks.  The white smear of skulls floating around them.  In the distance.  Far too close.  Hair in her face.  Maria at her side.  Susan leaning forward as Maria tries to get her gelding to come on. Just hurry up. 

Then the pain starts. 

Shredded skin along her back.  Muscles tearing in sets of two, one on each side of the claws— are they claws? — that cut and slice. Skin broken.  Blood slips.  Her shirt is a strip of cotton.  Useless and unnecessary.  Her spine sends shockwaves through her body.  Her head is thrown backwards as her spine arches.  Desperate to escape.  Something appears before her.  She cannot see it.  

Maria is wielding her stick.  Slashing at the figure that’s reaching around at all sides. Holly rears up.  A proper soldier would lean forward, ride out the attack and sit the seat proudly.  Like the paintings in congress.  Brave soldiers on the battlefield.  Afraid of nothing at all. 

But Eliza is afraid. 

Her back screeches just as loud as the wraith’s calls.  Her son.  Maria.  Susan.  Holly.  The air behind her is whooshing and breezing.  The saddle shifts.  Her weight flounders.  She releases the reins and wraps her arms around her son.  Holly is struck hard by the wraith she aimed to kick.  It flies through Holly’s body, seizing the horse’s brave heart as it directs itself to Phil and Eliza. 

But they’re already gone. 

They’re falling.  Falling from Holly’s back and down to the ground give feet below.  Eliza watches as the wraith moves.  As Holly lets out one final whine.  A proud mare losing everything in a final battle she never should have fought.  The wraith slips through, and misses Holly’s load.  But it takes Holly first. 

Eliza’s shoulders hit first.  She ducks her head and squeezes Phil tight.  Her back explodes in agony.  She can’t breathe at all.  Phil’s weight is suffocating.  Her lungs are crushed.  Her ribs are broken.  Her head starts spinning.  Brain feels like it’s buzzing with insects. 

Holly collapses to the ground. Body pitching opposite Eliza and Phil, thankfully not crushing them under her weight.  She lays still, and she does not get up.  

Hair finally out of Eliza’s face, she can stare up at the sky.  Watch was wraith begins to circle around her.  Swooping and sweeping low.  Reaching for her with sickening claws, as she curls her body over her son.  Her back feels as though it will never be okay again.  It aches unlike anything she’s ever felt.  She has been stripped raw and red, and knows that all her prayers are for naught— this is how they die. 

With Alexander’s war horse dead at their sides.  Their belongings scattered from their bags.  Alexander’s books tipping out onto the ground.  The moon still high in the sky, but the horizon starting to show signs of light.  Maybe it’s a fantasy.  Maybe it’s just hope.  It matters little.  It won’t be fast enough. 

Thundering hooves clamor through the earth.  Eliza feels the ground tremble beneath her feet.  Maria is there.  Weilding her stick as though it were a sword.  Her hair tied out of her face.  Susan pressed low to the neck of her horse.  Maria’s screaming out commands.  Shouting words that Eliza cannot hear. 

She can only stare.  Broken and in agony, as Maria slashes her stick through the air.  She slams it into the wraith’s skull.  Stabs it through its chest cavity.  “Begone! Begone! We’ve had enough of you! Get! Get going!” Maria’s screams are futile, but her actions are vicious. 

Brutal. 

She is every bit the soldier that Eliza had imagined.  She is fire and blood.  She’s a blue coat on a great horse, challenging the foes that they never thought they could defeat.  Riding victoriously into battle with everything she needs.  A dream of tomorrow, and a steadfast will to survive. 

Eliza fears she’s going to lead both her and Susan to their deaths.  That it will be for naught.  All of this would be pointless.  None of this will have mattered.  They should have run.  They should have run and left Phil and her to die, because at least that way  _ they _ could have survived. 

The wraith would have been satisfied with Eliza and Phil.  Maria and Susan could have continued their journey unimpeded.  Without anyone or anything to slow them down or stop them.  They didn’t have to worry about Eliza.  They could have kept on.  Just as they’d originally planned. 

And yet, Maria didn’t leave.  She hurled expletives and she battered the wraith when it comes close.  Startling it by her refusal to be cowed, and keeping them back, back,  _ back.  _ The sun rose in the east.  Light crossing the grass like a line pulling the world in two.  One half living.  One half dead.  

Eliza watches the line travel closer and closer, the wraith startling and getting more confused by the moment.  It reachs for Eliza.  She cannot bear the strength to move.  To flinch away.  She lays still on the ground.  Her head feels so heavy.  Her limbs ache.  It is nothing compared to her back.  Her back is a hot pan pressed against her flesh.  Her skin is fire consuming her live.  It is death reaching back to the wraith, offering life for life.  

It is pain.  Pure and simple.  

The light shifts closer.  The line touches her toes.  The wraith vanishes as quickly as it came.  And Maria towers over her. 

She looks like an angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Animal Death. 
> 
> Sorry.


	13. Release

Maria ties her gelding off to a tree.  Gets Susan on the ground.  Eliza stares up at the sky. Listening as Maria moves.  Philip is kneeling by her side.  He’s wriggled out from Eliza’s grasp.  Unharmed.  Face fever red.  Eyes wet with tears.  He shakes Eliza’s shoulder, and Eliza can’t bring herself to respond.  She has enough strength to look up, and that’s it.  Her head spins badly.  Her consciousness fades. 

The world is coiling about in circles.  A snake poised to strike.  She cannot determine if she is the rat caught in its grip, or the mouse in its stomach.  The fleck of dirt on its brow, meaningless and easily forgotten about.  Not even worth being swallowed down and used as food for a new world’s beginning. 

She’s tired. 

Her eyes struggle to stay open, and her lips tremble as they fail to form words.  She feels as though she has been cut in half.  A tree chopped down, left as a stump on the ground.  Roots hold her to the earth, but with nothing else that can reach up.  Nothing else that can grow.  There are new heights for her.  She is going, going, going,  _ gone.  _

Eliza’s eyes close. 

They open. 

Phil is no longer at her side.  She is no longer lying by Holly’s body.  She’s curled on her shoulder.  Maria is heaving something heavy.  Eliza can hear her gasping.  Groaning.  It gets where she needs it to go.  Eliza hears the sigh of relief.  The exhalation of  _ okay. That’s done.  _  Eliza squeezes her eyes shut. 

She breathes in.  Her lungs work.  Her chest aches.  Ribs still broken.  Back still in indescribable agony.  “There’s a river over there,”  Maria tells her.  Eliza opens her eyes.  Maria’s crouching by her side.  “Susan can bring Philip.  I can bring you and the horse.”  Susan’s a sick child who had been seizing badly the day before. 

But she’s pushing herself to her feet, and Eliza’s still on the ground.  She’s holding out her hand for Phil, who appears at her side.  Face cleaned of dirt.  Misery still present.  Maria leans down and wraps her arms around Eliza’s body.  She hauls Eliza up to her feet, and Eliza groans.  

But she gets her feet under her.  She places an arm over Maria’s shoulder, and she lets Maria lead her on.  They walk slow.  One foot in front of the other.  One step at a time.  Eliza trips.  She stumbles.  She doesn’t fall.  Maria keeps her on her feet.  Maria holds her waist to keep from aggravating the wounds.  She locks Eliza in place and she doesn’t give Eliza the chance to falter. 

They reach the river, and Maria lets her sit.  Her legs collapse underneath her.  Her head hangs low.  Her hair hangs in strings around her face.  She stares at their ends.  Split and broken.  She feels tears press against her eyes.  “We need to take off your blouse,” Maria tells her.  She knows. 

She lifts her fingers to the buttons.  Starts pushing them through their holes, shaking the whole while.  Maria hums quietly under her breath.   _ Mrs. Mary Little Mouse. _  Eliza can’t bring herself to sing it back.  It feels like broken glass along her lips and tongue.  

Perhaps she’s always known it.  Her mind blocking the reality of the situation from her conscious thoughts until she had half a second to spare.  Half a moment to absorb the horror and calamity that has befallen them.  Maria helps ease her shirt over her head.  Her back screams at her.  Blames her for her failings.  “Holly’s dead,” Eliza manages to get out.  The words taste like ash on her lips. 

She’s killed her husband’s horse. 

Tears press against her eye lids.  They slide over her eye lashes.  Slip down her cheeks and land on her breasts.  She raises a hand to wipe at them, and the skin on her back reminds her she’s hurt.  The pain is a flash point.  A lightening rod.  A beacon.  She cries into her fingernails and she tells herself,  _ don’t be stupid.  It’s just a horse.  _

“You and Susan can switch off on Victor,” apparently the gelding had a name.  “Phil can ride with whomever is with him.  Victor can carry Holly’s supplies.”  Which left Maria walking.  Walking all the way to the Griffon’s nest.  The tears pressed harder down her cheeks.  Eliza turns her hands over. Presses the palms to her cheeks.  The heels cover her chin, the tips hide in the roots of her hair.  She sobs. 

The motion pulls at her back, but perhaps it’s worth it.  Perhaps it’s punishment for how badly she’s failed.  She can hear Maria work.  Listens as Maria clumps up her shirt and dips it into the river.  It’s pulled out after a few moments, rung a bit, and then carefully applied back to her back in a clump.  Maria rubs at her shoulders.  Down the length of her spine.  She carefully dabs at the cuts.  

“How bad?” Eliza asks through the shaking and the tears.  Maria tells her that it’s four long slashes.  Shoulder to hip.  Four fingers stretched wide and slicing her open with four long claws.  Maria takes washes her back slowly.  Is tender around the cuts, but there is no stopping Eliza from feeling each compression.  From hissing and curling forwards.  She hugs her knees to her chest.  Her cupped palms fill with tears. 

Once, when they had been young, her little sister pushed her down the stairs of their home in Albany.  Peggy had been furious with her, angry that she’d not wanted to go outside and play.  She tried telling Peggy that it wasn’t appropriate for them to be running about in their Sunday best, but Peggy hadn’t listened.  She’d retaliated, and Eliza fell over herself.  Limbs in all directions until she landed on the floor with a broken arm and a bit lip.  

Eliza remembers looking up the stairs at her sister.  Watching the shock coat Peggy’s face as she turned and started screaming for help.  Eliza’s arm hurt worse than anything she’d ever felt, and until she’d given birth, she’d never felt anything as bad.  She sat at the foot of the stairs, crying loudly until her mother came to see the damage.   _ Stop crying, it is improper behavior.  _

She tries telling herself that now.  

It doesn’t seem to be working.  She can’t get the tears to cease.  Can’t ration her breaths appropriately.  Can’t do anything right.  Can’t even keep her husband’s horse safe.  Protect his house.  Save their children.  She’s gotten started now, and she doesn’t think she’s going to be able to stop until all the water has left her body.  Maria cleans her back without comment, doesn’t tell her to stop crying or to behave. 

Phil and Susan are sitting nearby, and Eliza should be strong for them.  They need someone to act as a role model.  To behave, at all times, as a Lady should, in order to establish the proper order.  It’s her responsibility and obligation to show them how it’s proper to act, but she can’t do it.  She’s a failure.

The stroking on her back stops.  Maria shifts around her, and Eliza can feel her kneeling just by her feet.  Maria’s hands wrap around Eliza’s wrists.  They pull gently, dislodging them from where they’ve been adhered to Eliza’s face.  “You are  _ not _ a  _ failure, _ Lady Hamilton,” Maria tells her firmly. 

Eliza stares at Maria’s face.  Blurred somewhat by the tears.  “Holly’s dead,” she says.  She feels as though she’s repeated those two words over and over and over again.  As if it’s replaced prayer and taken over her mind with lamentations.  She is exhausted by it.  She’s exhausted by everything.  She has tried so hard.  She has done everything she could.  And it’s never going to be enough.   _ She’s  _ never going to be enough. 

“What you going on about?” Maria asks her.  Eliza stumbles over her next breath.  She breathes in and it chokes on mucus in her throat.  She coughs around it, tries to get the feeling to settle.  To dissipate.  To do something.  Anything.  

“I don’t understand why this is happening,” Eliza tells her.  She sniffles.  There’s snot starting to pull from her nose and she jerks a hand back from Maria.  Rubs it beneath her nostrils.  Crude and awful.  Her mother would give her a beating if she’d been caught doing that.  It’s unladylike.  It’s inappropriate.  “I don’t understand why any of this is happening.” 

“The plague?”  Maria hazards, but it’s not the plague.  It’s not the sickness that’s swept over her son’s body.  Not the house that’s being circled by vultures.  Not her six children relocated to Albany while she’s here on the ground.  

Funny thing about emotions, is that they all exist on a knife edge of each other.  Once one feeling becomes empowered, all the rest clamor for attention too.  Struggle for center stage.  A chance in the spot light.  Eliza feels each grievance she’s held within her body start arguing for the opportunity to speak.  She feels each one clawing into her brain like wraiths in the night.  Digging at grey matter until she is forced to breathe life into their ethereal bodies.  Forced to let them take shape and step out into the world.

“Why did Alexander have to  _ die?”  _  she asks her husband’s mistress.  Maria’s eyes widen and her mouth drops.  Taken aback by the sudden vitriol that is streaming from Eliza’s mouth.  Eliza cannot stop it though.  Cannot help but speak these words.  Get them out of her head.  Get them off her tongue.  She wants to be rid of them.  Wants them to find form elsewhere and leave her in peace.  “Why did he have to go and fight  _ Burr?   _ What good would it have done?  Why was his honor more important than  _ us?”  _

“I don’t know,” Maria manages, but it’s not the answer Eliza wants. 

She doubts she even wants an answer.  She just wants to shout.  To let it out.  To thrash in the face of all of the pain and sorrow and demand satisfaction.  She deserves it.  Has she not been a good wife?  Has she not born eight children, accepted her husband’s faults, done all she could?  “He promised me.  He promised me he wouldn’t leave.  He  _ promised  _ me forever.”  He  _ lied.  _  He lied and he went to duel a man who should have been his friend.  He lied and he died because he was  _ awful.  _

“The duel was just where my son’s was.  Did you know that?”  Eliza asks Maria.  The younger woman stares at Eliza.  Trembling almost under the onslaught of Eliza’s sudden and impassioned fury.  The tears have ceased in the face of her anger, and Eliza wishes she could be grateful, but she’s not.  She doesn’t have it in her to  _ feel _ one more thing.  “He dueled Burr  _ where our son died. _ ”   

Not precisely of course.  No.  Philip had had enough time to shoot in the air and be shot in turn.  Enough time to be carted back across the river to their home, where she and Alexander could kneel at his bedside and sob into his hair.  Beg him to stay with them even as his baby brother grew in Eliza’s stomach.  Even as his namesake began to form into a tiny person as well.  And when her first Philip died, the second should have had the chance to live. 

Yet it’s been four years and already he’s losing that battle.   _ It’s not fair.  _

“Why would he do this to us?”  Alexander should have been here.  Should have finished his research on the plague, if that really had been what he’d been researching, and found the cure.  He should have been the one to take little Phil to the Long Lakes.  Should have been the one to ride through the night with wraiths at his back. 

He’s  _ better  _ than she is. 

“Shut up,” Maria snaps.  Eliza’s mouth shuts.  She blinks wetly at her companion, and Maria glares down at her.   _ “Better  _ than you?”  Maria asks shortly.    _ “Better?  _  Do you even know what means?”  Eliza half feels like she’s lost the thread of the conversation entirely.  She has no idea what any of this means.  “You’ve lived in a house expecting everyone to look after you your whole life.  And maybe you’ve forgotten this, but Alexander wasn’t no treasure.” 

It feels like she’s been slapped.  Eliza goes to argue, but Maria talks over her.  Raising her voice and shaking Eliza by the wrists.  “Your husband never knew when to shut up!  He got into arguments with every man he ever met, he screamed and shouted and people ‘till they lost the will to argue back, he had an affair because he never thought about consequences until after he did something stupid.  And what about you?” she asks with a furious glare. 

Eliza shrugs her shoulders helplessly, not sure what she’s meant to say.  Maria plows onward,  “You’ve never had no help with anything.  You’ve needed to raise a family in the midst of war.  Needed to move from place to place following his ambition.  Never having no chance to settle down or be anywhere comfortable for long.  He went and got himself killed and  _ didn’t think  _ about you or your bairns.  He just  _ died _ .  Leaving you with a house you can’t afford and seven children to take care of and you think he’s  _ better  _ than you?  Because he  _ died?”  _

“When he was a soldier, he—”

“—he was a  _ kid!  _  He came to this country and joined the army and how he managed to survive no one’ll ever be able to know.  But he did it same as every other boy who goes off to fight.  And how’s that make them any better than us?  They were just as scared their first night in the woods as we were.  Just as uncertain.  Just as unknowing.  They had to fight the wraiths and had to pitch the fires.  And I bet you they spooked at the night walkers and they ran at the sounds in the woods.  But they don’t tell those stories ‘cause it don’t make them look brave.  But they were all children still and that don’t make them any better than us.”

Eliza shakes her head.  She can feel the fury start to settle into weary acceptance.  What’s the point in being angry at anything?  It doesn’t make it better.  It never will.  Eliza’s shoulder sag.  “I never saw his ghost,” she admits quietly.  “Neither he nor Philip.”  

She wanted to.  She wanted to see them.  Talk to them.  Understand why they did what they did.  Both of them dying in duels in the same spot?  She couldn’t bear it.  She wanted answers.  But Alexander didn’t appear.  Philip stayed gone.  She travelled to the dueling grounds every day for months, waiting for their ghosts to arrive.  She had stayed awake in her room, staring at the bed in hopes that their bodies would reanimate in the place where they took their last breaths. 

They never came. 

“Why would you want that?”  Maria asks her.  

“Because I miss them,” she replies.  She looks at Maria helplessly.  “Because they were my world, and they’re gone, and I  _ miss  _ them.” 

“They died, Eliza.”  Tears come fresh and anew.  Not from pain.  Not from wrath.  This time, from sorrow.  Long and dark, deep and old.  Sorrow that forms the well of her soul.  Her life has become an endless march of sorrow.  Wake up and move on, but always know that it’s not what it should be.  It’s never going to be as good as it should be.  She’s lost it already, and there’s nothing more she can do. 

Her happy ending had been stolen a long time ago. 

“They died,” Maria repeats.  “And seeing ‘em every day?  Seeing ‘em over and over? That was never gonna help you.  You’d never get out of the house.  Never interact with the living.  You’d be trapped there, looking at a dead man who won’t grow old with you.  Who won’t mature with you.  Who’ll stay trapped like he was when he died, and never let you think o’ anything else.  He wasted his chance to have a good life wit’ you.  He doesn’t get a new one.  He doesn’t get to haunt your chance for happiness.” 

“Holly’s dead,” Eliza repeats.  It’s foolish to be so upset over the death of an animal.  But it’s the last stroke of life that she had left from him.  The last part of his bravery she held onto.  She has no support.  Has no belief she can get through this.  She’s been raised all her life to understand that the men did things like this.  It’s her job to stay at home.

“Yes,” Maria agrees.  She shifts her hands and braces them on Eliza’s shoulders.  Gently shaking Eliza forward and back until Eliza looks up to meet Maria’s eyes.  “But if your looking for a reason to keep moving on, your son’s still alive.   _ You’re  _ still alive.  We’re half way there, and we can make it.” 

“How do you know that?” Eliza asks.  “How do you know we’ll make it?  How do you know that the griffons are even there?  That we’ll even be able to find them?” 

Maria’s fingers dig into her shoulders.  The pain is inconsequential to the searing on her back. “Because if I doubt it,” Maria explains. “Then it’ll make it true.”  She takes a deep breath.  “That’s life, Eliza.  Things go wrong.  Plans change.  Husbands and children die.  But you take what you get and you move forward.  One step at a time.  And if it’s hard to move forward than I bet you your doing it right.  ‘Cause life ain’t meant to be easy.  Nothing is.  So you get up and you go, and you keep going because it’s the only thing you can do.  You don’t just sit down and let it all swallow you.  Your better than that.  And if nothing else,  _ I _ believe in you.”

Eliza tips her head forward.  She rests her brow against Maria’s collar.  She reaches her arms around Maria’s back and she embraces a woman she never dreamed of embracing.  Maria is careful about her hands.  She hugs Eliza gently, avoiding the wounds that race across her spine. 

“We’re gonna make it through,” Maria tells Eliza.  She presses a kiss to the side of Eliza’s head.  It feels like absolution.  Wipe the sins away.  Hide the doubt.  Push it away.   _ Give me strength. _

Eliza holds her even tighter, and commands herself to reply.  “We’re going to succeed.” 

The sun rises up above them, and fills the world with light. 


	14. Safe

They don’t have many bandages in their bags.  They have some.  But not enough.  Eliza sits still as Maria uses what they  _ do  _ have to make a wrap.  She pulls the cloth around Eliza’s chest and back, tying it off with a simple knot at the end. It’s tight, but not too tight that her ribs cannot manage the strain. 

Susan and Phil are far too ill to walk, and Eliza tells Maria this with no uncertain terms.  She finds a stick to lean on, she pushes herself to her feet, and together— they start to walk.  Victor, Maria’s skittish gelding, is extremely happy to no longer carry two grown women on his back.  Even with Phil and the added weight of the extra saddle bags, he’s got a lighter step than ever before.  He’s particularly pleased with the slower pace walking has provided.  

Maria guides him on the ground with the reins, leaving Susan responsible for holding Phil and keeping him steady.  Susan doses frequently while she rides.  Occasionally tipping slightly when it’s for an extended period of time, but Maria’s watching for it.  She pushes Susan back into place.  She keeps both children safe. 

Each step forward sends pain through Eliza’s body.  Her ribs squeeze badly as she walks.  Her back twinges on every step.  Her hand is rubbed raw by her walking stick, leaving her with cuts along her palm.  The first town they stop at doesn’t have any horses for sale.  They do have ointment and cloth for bandages. 

Eliza spends her coin on more medicine for the children, better shoes for her and Maria, cloth for bandages, and a new shirt.  Maria helps dress her, frowning at the blood stains that mar the bandages each night and day.  They’re lucky none of the blood seems to stain her clothes, but the bandages are always soaked through. The salve helps alleviate some of the pain, but walking doesn’t make things any better.  She pulls at the wounds the further south they travel, and they are given no chance to heal.

She’s warned of possible infection, and can even feel her skin starting to warm from fever.  Though whether that’s from the cuts or the plague finally taking its hold on her, Eliza doesn’t know.  She just knows that it’s easier to fall asleep at the end of the day.  Easier to collapse to the ground and let her aching body just melt into the dirt.  

They break often.  Stop often.  They manage their time as best they can to avoid spending another night out in the open.  Always waking up as early as possible to continue travelling south with as much sunlight on their back as they can.  

Eliza flinches awake at the sound of night walkers screaming outside town limits.  She opens her eyes the moment the screeching starts.  She’s always heard the sounds of the night.  She’s always slept through it in the past.  But now she wakes the moment the wraiths grow in number, heart pounding in her chest as she sits up in bed and watches the windows for signs of a breach. 

Exhaustion pulls at her body and grips her eyelids.  Tries to pull them closed.  Sand forms within the cracks and she knows she should just go to sleep.  But the wraiths keep howling, and she can’t manage it.  Cannot find the comfort that  _ not knowing  _ brought her before the attack.  Maria takes to placing Phil in Susan’s care.  To sitting beside Eliza and wrapping her arms around Eliza’s body. 

She pulls Eliza to her chest.  Holds her there and cups her head.  Strokes her hair and tells her that it’s going to be all right.  They’re safe here.  They’re safe, and the wraiths can’t come inside the city.  It’s going to be all right.  In the mornings, Eliza finds herself lost and unsure.  Her mind floats along with her body.  Disengaged and fractured.  

Maria makes her drink peppermint tea, she has Eliza drink water every hour of the day.  Assists her when Eliza struggles to stand after she needs to relieve herself.  Helps her get back in her breeches while her back twinges and she tries to remind herself to be grateful that she no longer has her period because at least she doesn’t need to deal with  _ that  _ on top of  _ this.  _

Her fever breaks, miraculously, by the time they reach the capital.  But she’s still unsteady on her feet.  Her balance made more awkward by constantly over compensating for sore  _ everything.  _

Construction on the city had started years ago.  Rumors on its completion started making their way up to New York in the winter.  Yet when Eliza finally lays eyes on the city that her husband arranged to be built, she finds that she detests everything about it.  It’s short and squat.  The smell is insidious.  There are bugs buzzing all around, and the people are filthy.  

“It’s a swamp,” Maria offers generously.  Muddy roads causing Victor’s hooves to collect thick squelches of crud up and down his legs.  They walk within the city limits, and Eliza squints up at the sky.  Counting hours and knowing that they had no choice but to stay here, but hating every second of it. 

They walk slowly through the streets and they look for places to rest.  Eliza’s not even all that surprised when they discover that there’s no inn or travelers’ lodge.  Just a makeshift fire circle that all the workers clamber into at night.  Laughing and drinking liquor, hooting and hollering so loud that Eliza can hardly hear the wraiths that patrol the city, searching for breaks in the fire line to come and kill them all. 

“They’re vulgar,” Eliza says quietly as she finally settles down after a a long day.  Victor is hitched and resting his poor tired hooves.  Susan and Phil are curled up next to each other.  Eliza can just hear Susan telling stories to Phil and petting his hair as Phil hugs onto her.  They’re sitting far enough away from the men, that Maria can start tending to her back with some semblance of privacy. 

Women have joined together on this side of the circle, warily watching the drunk workers celebrating boisterously.  They cluster in a group of maybe thirty, all forming a tight section of sobriety that is suspicious of everything.  From what Eliza can tell, they’ve created a system here.  A way to keep themselves safe.  Some even have sticks in hand to smack at the men who dare to cross the invisible line between sobriety and obscenity. 

“It happens,” an older woman tells them softly.  She offers Maria a hand with the bandages, holding the salve they’ve secured as Maria unrolls the gauze and tries to wash the sore flesh.  “You’ve seen a lot, haven’t you?” she asks, pitying expression carved deep into the wrinkles of her skin. 

“Wraiths, few days back,” Maria replies for her.  On cue, the night terrors start screeching loud and terrible.  Eliza sees flutters of fabric flickering through the night.  Her fingers tighten around her shirt.  She squeezes it so tight she fears it might rip beneath her nails.  Her sore palm aches at her inattention. 

The woman sighs though and nods her head.  “They’re pretty bad down here, especially toward the valley.  You been up there?  It’s not quite what it should be.  Awful an such.  All from the war we reckon.  Only thing that make sense.”  The woman’s accent is even thicker than Maria’s, and Eliza tries to remind herself that accents don’t mean anything at all. 

She’s so tired, though.  She closes her eyes and tries to ignore everything.  Tries to pretend that her knees and folded shirt are the only protection she has from the roaming eyes of inebriated men.  Maria works quickly, but it takes time to see to each cut.  Time to wrap the gauze around her body. Time to settle the shirt back into place and encourage her to not hunch over in a vain attempt for both privacy and comfort.  

“We’re going to the Long Lakes,” Maria tells the woman.  “Have you ever been?”

“The Carolina Long Lakes?” their guest asks.  Her eyes go wide.  “Never in person no. They say its’a beautiful place, but you gotta be careful ‘course. Seeing as the place is cursed.”

Everything about their journey has been cursed so far, Eliza thinks savagely.  Why wouldn’t the Long Lakes themselves be cursed too?  But Maria’s better at social communication these days.  She’s better at making friends with strangers on the street.  Eliza finds she has not the wherewithal nor dedication to try.  She hurts too much to want to think about propriety and niceties.  “Cursed?”  Maria asks, encouraging Eliza to lean her head against her shoulder.  Take some of the pressure off her back.  Try to rest.  Even if it’s just for a few minutes. 

“Savage creatures haunt those trees.  Me-thinks there’s a bit of monsters up in there.  

“Griffons?” Eliza asks softly

“Aye yes, lotsa talk about griffons these days but they something awful, don’t you think? Blood-thirsty and violent.  Will kill you soon as they spot you.  Baddest worst thing out in the wood.  Some hunter say they went out and try to kill them dead, but we ain’t heard nothing about them since.”

Eliza doesn’t want to listen to this anymore.  She doesn’t want to think about what could possibly be happening with the griffons.  Dead or alive.  Pushing up from Maria’s side, she hisses out a long breath of air.  Stumbles to her feet and pulls her shirt more firmly around her shoulders.  

She longs for a wrap.  One of the finely woven shawls that she or one of her sisters spent hours crafting.  Feet pressing at the treadles and hand throwing her shuttle.  Over and over again, moving the beater back and forth and pulling the design into place.  She had silk thread once, Lafayette shipped it over from France before the revolution.  She’d sat down with a sheet of paper and counted out the marks on her page.  Determining her pattern and then setting it into motion.  Once done, she could hold the shawl around her shoulders.  Settle into its warmth.  

The Grange has nice chairs and carpets arranged before fireplaces that never let the chill in.  The walls are thick and charmed so no wraiths or monsters can get in.  Eliza shivers in the cold.  She wants to go home.  Carefully lowering herself back down to the ground, she fumbles through the saddlebags until she finds the  _ Bestiary.  _

Turning to the griffon section by memory, Eliza looks down at the pages.  Her weight slides from her legs, leaning on her hip instead.  She tries to get comfortable, but sitting upright still pulls on her back.  Maria’s hand appears on her shoulder.  “You okay?” she asks, kneeling down at Eliza’s side. 

The notes on the sides of the pages all talk about the family unit of griffons.  How griffons care after their young.  The foods they eat.  The lifestyle they live.  Whoever the note taker was, they spent a great deal of time observing the griffons.  Far more than the book’s writer ever had.  

One of the more telling notes spoke to a familiarity with Alexander.   _ Alex, next time you go riding off at midnight, at least try to plot your course less haphazardly.   _ No doubt in direct response to Alexander’s injury.  Unbiddedly, Eliza’s mind shifts back to Holly.  Sweet Holly who did her very best and was lost on the field. 

“Do you think they crows have found her body?”  Eliza asks softly.  Maria’s fingers slide through her hair.  Pushing her bangs back behind her ear whey they belong.  She feels her stomach twist into knots and her head spinning dizzily.  

The men continue dancing uproariously around a fire they’ve created.  Smoke rises high in the sky and she cannot help but flinch at the loud noises that fight for greater attention.  Cannot help but look out into the darkness and try to spy the night terrors that are just lurking beyond the ring.  

But Maria’s fingers in her hair feels nice.  She leans against the touch, even as Maria quietly asks for clarification. “Holly?” she confirms. 

“Yes,” Eliza replies softly.  

“Likely not long after we left.”  It’s a dead body on the ground.  Eliz knows that the crows would have been at it soon enough.  Vultures too.  The scavengers would fight over Holly’s corpse and devour strips of meat off her aged bones. 

Soon too, some travelers would come across the mare.  Find Alexander’s saddle still strapped down on her body.  The saddle had been carefully crafted and tended to.  It was a relic.  One that survived for so long and had been mended with such careful dedication that Eliza had never seen it crumble.  Alexander kept it in such good condition.  It’d fetch a pretty penny at a market.  

“I should write my sister a letter.”  The realization sinks deep in her bones, and Eliza sighs.  Her head aches worse than it had mere minutes ago, and she’d never dreamed of it aching worse then.  Maria hummed again under her breath.  She looks over toward Susan and Phil.  

The children have grown close in their journey.  Perhaps suffering makes good bed fellows.  But Susan hugs Phil like she’s meant to protect something precious.  Phil seeks out Susan for hugs and cuddles.  He’s started doing the same to Maria as well.  All of them falling into an easy pattern.  They are each others only source of comfort, they are the only ones that  _ can  _ be there for one another. 

“I’m not close to my siblings,” Maria tells Eliza thoughtfully.  “They grew up and moved on as fast as they could.  And I stayed in New York.” 

“Why?” 

Maria shrugs.  “Why does anyone stay in New York?”  it’s a question that Eliza’s always wanted to know.  She didn’t grow up there.  She grew up north in Albany.  And yet she’d travelled south, found a home in the city.  Found love in the city.  She married and longed to stay in the city.  Make their life there. 

She loved the streets.  The shops, the commerce, the education.  She loved the plays in the theatre.  She loved the parlors and their gossip.  Loved playing the piano and walking with Alexander up and down streets that were always safe from the night terrors that never crossed the city.  “The wraiths never scared me before.” 

New York kept the fear from her mind.  It kept her from really taking note of the horrible things that lived in the night.  She’d walked the streets with the moon high in the sky and not thought anything of it.  She’d felt safe in the city.  Safer than anywhere else in the world. 

Maria encourages Eliza back to her feet, and they return to sit closer to the children.  Susan squints up at them.  Brow wet with sweet.  She’s been trying so hard for them.  She’s been trying to stop the tremors that wrack through her frame.  Tried to keep her head down and not make things worse.  She even offered to walk not long ago, though Eliza wouldn’t have anything of it. 

She was not unable  _ yet.  _

“There aren’t any wraiths in New York,” Maria agrees softly as they get into a more comfortable position. Eliza encourages Susan to rest her head on her lap. Phil still hugs onto Susan and doesn’t wake, but the teenager relocates easily.  Maria wraps her arm around Eliza’s shoulders.  Keeping her back from touching the wall behind them, and allowing her to relish in the warmth and security her presence provides. 

“You saved our lives,” Eliza whispers.  She cannot recall if she thanked Maria for that.  Cannot recall if she’s expressed the feelings that form within her body.  There are words that describe her emotions and her hopes. There are words that could describe how she feels and why she feels that way.  But she cannot find any of them.  She cannot find the way to tell Maria that everything that she’s ever done has been so useful to them.  That she owes Maria everything, and she would do anything to make it up to her. “Thank you,” she says.  

It is not enough. 

“Your welcome,” Maria replies anyway.  It’s the appropriate response to the words that Eliza has spoken, but they do not cover everything.  Eliza wishes she could be more eloquent, but she’s never had this talent before.  She’s never thought she’d need it. 

Thinking quickly, Eliza strokes her fingers along the pages of the bestiary.  Tries to imagine what she can do to make it up to Maria.  To express how she feels.  “When we return to New York…I’d like to introduce you to my sister.” 

“Why?” It’s a fair question.  

“Angelica…she’s my best friend.  She’s always been my best friend.  I’d like you to know her.  She’s wonderful.  Truly.  She’ll teach you anything you’d like to learn.  Converse with you about topics that you’d never dream of talking about.  She’s funny and witty.  She charmed the courts in London  _ and  _ Paris you know.” 

“That a fact?” 

“Yes.” Angelica and Maria would make quite a pairing.  Her sharp wit would match brilliantly with Maria’s clever tongue.  They could trade barbs and go back and forth.  Be the best of friends. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do when we get home,” Maria admits.  “But if you mean to introduce me to your sister I’m assuming that means we’re friends now?” 

Yes.  They’re friends.  Eliza doesn’t think she has it in her to retain any pain or discomfort in regards to Maria.  The woman had ridden her horse into battle, with her daughter ill and desperate for aid, all for the sole purpose of saving them.  Of course they’re friends.  “I would be honored if you would take me to be your friend, Lady Maria,” Eliza requests formally. 

The question makes Maria laugh loudly, her giggles carrying far across the camp.  The men still hoot and holler, but Maria’s laugh sounds far more genuine and wonderful than them all.  Eliza smiles when she hears it.  It’s a light sound.  Musical in it’s arcs and curves.  

Maria laughs with her whole body.  Her shoulders shake.  Her neck bends her head low.  Her cheeks turn rosy with warmth.  Lips pull in a wide smile and her eyes squeeze shut.  Forming crows feet in the corners.  “‘Lady Maria,’ that’s the second time you’ve called me that.”

“I think I’ll keep doing so,” Eliza tells her primly.  

“All right,  _ Lady, _ all right.” 

Maria kisses her crown again, and Eliza feels her cheeks flush at the familiarity.  She twists her head to press against Maria’s shoulder.  Grateful beyond measure that she’s not alone. Her body aches badly, but her soul for once feels light.  Protected and secured.  They’re together and they’re alive.  Grief doesn’t pull her apart at the seems nor does it linger too long on her mind. 

Maria’s started to see whenever she gets caught up in her own head.  She distracts her.  She offers anecdotes.  She keeps her from kneeling on the ground obsessing over griffons when there’s nothing more that they can do tonight.  “Sleep, Lady,” Maria tells her.  “I’ve got first watch.”  Eliza closes her eyes.  The book is closed and pressed close to her heart. 

“Do you think the hunters killed the griffons?” she asks quietly. 

“No,” Maria replies.  “Fate’s not that cruel.” She says it with such conviction she  _ must  _ believe it.  “We’re going to find these griffons.  Just you wait.” 

Eliza nods her head, and tries to ignore the sounds of the night.  Maria rests a palm over her ear, strokes her hair as she is lulled to sleep.  The night terrors still scream, but they’re muffled.  Quieted.  “You’re safe,” Maria tells her.  “You’re safe.”  


	15. Mt. Vernon

Eliza nods her head, and tries to ignore the sounds of the night.  Maria rests a palm over her ear, strokes her hair as she is lulled to sleep.  The night terrors still scream, but they’re muffled.  Quieted.  “You’re safe,” Maria tells her.  “You’re safe.”  

Eliza wakes well before dawn.  She quietly tells Maria to get some rest, and shifts position so she can hold onto the young woman instead.  She strokes her hand up and down Maria’s arm.  Stares out into the darkness, watching the fire circle flicker for the final few hours of its lifespan. 

The men have quieted down.  Those who are responsible for keeping watch now are milling about.  Some pace around the circle, looking here and there, adding more fuel to the burn.  Tossing more oil into the circle.  Keeping the wraiths back.  

Victor makes tiny horsey noises where he dreams not far away.  Eliza yawns and shakes her head.  Trying to focus and push the exhaustion back.  It’ll be dawn soon, and they’ll need to get going.  Something flutters in the corner of her eye, and she tracks it. 

A wraith.  It’s just on the other side of the fire ring.  Staring at them.  Black cloak swaying in the wind.  White face unhinged and unattached.  Sockets where the eyes should be.  Jaw opening and closing as if eating.  One hole in it head, as though shot.  Chewing on something she couldn’t see and would never be able to understand.  It reaches its hand toward them, but this time the fire line holds.  It cannot break the perimeter. 

One of the men walk by and waves a burning stick toward the wraith, scattering it into the background.  It disappears.  But Eliza cannot help the tendril of fear from slipping through her.  “Those things’ll chase prey ‘till the ends of the earth,” the man mutters, shaking his head.  

It’s not a comforting thought. 

The howling isn’t as bad now.  Although the woods are still filled with the chatter of the dead, it’s not as hectic as it had been hours prior.  She’s grateful.  Endlessly grateful.  Her body feels tight and nervous.  Anxiety still spiking whenever a shriek echoes too loudly.  The noise cannot stop soon enough. 

When the sun rises, she encourages Maria to wake.  They tend to the children.  Help them eat breakfast.  Some poorly constructed stew that make Phil’s stomach protest each bite.  He throws up almost immediately, and Eliza tries spends another few coins on getting other foods that they can try to feed him later.  

His eyes struggle to stay open, and he has lost so much weight over the past two weeks.  Cheeks hollowing and divots forming beneath his eyes.  His baby curls have started to flatten, his skin darkened by the sun and yet still far too pale.  Sick pallor marring his complexion far more than the tan could hope to overcome. 

With great effort, they get Phil and Susan back on their horse.  Eliza’s feet  _ burn _ as she walks.  Bloody blisters seeping immediately into the thin strips of gauze they’d needed to wrap around her soles.  Eliza longed for a horse.  But each time they entered a town, either there were no horses for sale, or her coin was not enough.  She couldn’t spend all her money on a horse and leave them with nothing for food or supplies.  

She hadn’t anticipated this particular expense. 

Stupid. 

Fingers wrapping tight around her walking stick, she pushed it forward, and together they left the capital.  “You think Jefferson’s gonna live there?”  Maria asks her when they pass the bizarrely shaped Roman monstrosity that they’re building toward the center of the city. 

“I’ve no idea,” Eliza replies.  She hopes the house never gets constructed, that Jefferson must continue to commute to places he doesn’t care for until the day he dies.  She’s no interest in alleviating any of Jefferson’s discomfort.  Let the man rot. 

Maria withdraws her map from a fold in her pocket, and she squints down at it.  “There’s a settlement we can reach tonight.  Something like six or seven hours away I think.”  Eliza hesitates before holding out her hand.  The map is passed over, and she looks at it. 

“Mount Vernon…” she murmurs softly. 

Her friend frowns and leans closer to see.  “That’s what that is?” she asks.  Eliza shakes her head.  She drags her right pointer finger so that it’s just a little ways to the right of the settlement that Maria had mentioned. 

“This is Mount Vernon.”  There’s a streak of land that’s uninhabited on the map.  A small dot, certainly, but other than that there’s no mention of anything being there at all.  Not unusual, most maps wouldn’t have included it.  The private property of George Washington desired no such attention made.  Not a city or a town, it was no man’s business how to find his home.   

"You're sure that it's there?" Maria asks slowly.  Eliza is.  She's travelled to Mount Vernon on seven separate occasions, and she remembers the exact bend in the road.  The exact placement of the trees that lead to the campus.  Martha had, on more than one occasion, described the trail to Mount Vernon.  Excited for the possibility of visitors, particularly when it came to Georges visiting them.

"Lafayette's son stayed with us for a time during the Revolution, when we were able, we brought him to Mount Vernon to stay with the Washingtons.  I remember the road."  She remembered in particular how much Georges had tried not to be afraid.  How he didn't once let her see him cry.  How he proudly showed off for her children and pretended that the war didn't matter to him.  That he was just fine.

Even though the letters still came with lists of the dead, and he still recognized the names that were being reported to them.  How he stumbled over stories about his parents, and was awestruck by the idea that the war had ended in the Americas.  Georges and Alexander had spent hours each night looking over maps and discussing travel arrangements.  Alexander had made it a game for the boy.  A challenge.  Encouraging him to plot the best course.

The road was fairly easy, and Alexander knew every sneaking corner and duplicitous route there was to get to Mount Vernon.  Had ridden the road often enough that even if Georges had made a mistake, he knew how to get them to their destination. 

Their enthusiasm had inspired Eliza to study the maps more closely.  To review them while she and the younger children rode in the carriage.  Her oldest son proudly riding a pony side by side his father and Georges.

Alexander even played soldiers with them, letting them ride about as if they were going into war themselves.  The tension gone from his shoulders as he urged Holly to run in circles, the boys trying to 'shoot' him with their highly threatening sticks still fresh with leaves.

He'd continued the tom-foolery at Mount Vernon.  Running about the grounds with the greatest sense of indecency and causing a ruckus amongst the servants.  Washington had watched the proceedings with an amused expression, his eyes twinkling as he threatened to inform all of congress of Hamilton's behavior if he didn't manage to win the 'war' they'd cultivated on the grounds. 

Her husband had sheepishly returned to the dinner table that night, hands in his pockets and neck bent in contrition.  Apologizing to his General for failing to outsmart the two rapscallions.   _ You must understand, sir, the younger generation is simply  _ better  _ than I.   _ Alexander had excused, much to the amusement of the Washingtons and the glory of the children.

"I know how to get to Mount Vernon," Eliza says with firm determination.  She knows exactly how to get there.  "And they'll let us in."

Mount Vernon was highly defensible and well lit at night.  The fires that burned never once let out, and spells from witches kept an even tighter barrier from those within the field and those outside.  The walls were so thick that the screams were never heard.   Ghosts had no place inside the settlement.

Martha had told her long ago that she and her family was welcome any time they wished to arrive.  Her doors were always open to them.  There was no greater time than now, and Eliza knew beyond a shadow of a doubt—they would be able to resupply and  _ rest  _ at Mount Vernon.  Perhaps even fetch a doctor to review Susan and Phil's condition.

Nodding slowly, Maria accepted the change of plans.  "Lead the way, Lady," she offers.  And Eliza does just that.  She walks the road with purposeful intent. Scanning roads for trees and markers that she knew from so long ago.

"It's been almost five years since I last visited to Mount Vernon."  The lands felt empty without Washington's presence.  Alexander had spent finally drudged up the courage to visit the tomb of his mentor, and he'd hardly spoken a word at all while there.  Martha had looked so old and weary in her mourning gown. 

_ The funny thing is,  _ she'd told Eliza with her lovely southern drawl, 'I's and 'U's turning into 'a's and 'ah's.   _ No one thinks they've all made him out to be some great hero in their mind.  A legend that could never die.  And they forget that at the end of it all—he was just a man.  Same as anyone else. _

Heroes, Martha had gone on to explain, seem to take on an otherworldly quality.  Their faults disappear, their tempers vanish.  They are immortalized in the mind as one fixed image, and all the shades of grey are washed off like water over a whetstone.  The mind becomes sharpened into hyper-focusing on one image, and everything else just falls away.  Forgotten about and unnecessary at the end.

Martha Washington always knew exactly what to say.

With little else to distract them as they walked, Eliza tells Maria about the Washingtons.  For all her usual lack of interest in anything political or civil service oriented, even Maria seems a touch awestruck by the idea that she'd known the family intimately enough to just arrive on their doorstep.  She confirms no less than three times that it will be all right to go to Mount Vernon.  Especially with the children.

Eliza swears it to be so, words coming strong and confident even as she prays that nothing has changed since she last spoke to Martha.  The letter she received in the mail offering her condolences for Alexander's passing had been one of the things to help her through the loss of her husband.  If Martha had rescinded her beliefs on Eliza's acceptability...she's not certain what she would do or say.

Her fingers tighten around the walking stick, and she shifts her weight more onto the rod.  Grimacing as the blisters on her feet seem to be bleeding already.  Their new footwear hadn't been  _ bad,  _ but clearly they could have been better.  She wishes she knew what to do to improve the quality, but at the moment she can only manage what she has.  They're more than half-way through their journey.

The Long Lakes aren't far now.

Noon comes just as they start on the long path that leads to Mount Vernon's main house.  Eliza's certain they've crossed into Washington's territory at the very least.  She recognizes some of the lines and markers from the General's surveying, and she points them out to Maria in hopes of easing her worry that this could all be for naught.

She's rambling by the time they reach one hour past.  Words coming in such rapid succession she's half wondered if she's lost her wits.  The fever that'd overcome her after the attack is gone, and yet she feels off kilter and nervous.  The silence of their journey is suffocating.  She wants to keep filling it with every thought in her head, but her thoughts are running in circles and her words are slurring together.

Maria pushes a canteen to her hand and orders her to drink.  Looks at her like she cannot believe what she's seeing.  Eliza's face flushes dark, she tries not to look at Maria for fear of seeing the chastisement on her features.

"Are you all right?"  Maria asks, and Eliza truly doesn't know how to answer that.  She cannot explain why she's so nervous.  Cannot explain why she's jumpy and uncertain.  Why she feels as though she's become an actor on a stage who's forgotten her lines.  Who's adlibbing as she's going along, and missing her mark each time.

"Fine," Eliza replies.  He back twinges and she hisses in pain, trying to push back against the feeling of inadequacy.

A loud crackling sound echoes in the distance, and both Eliza and Maria freeze.  Victor trods on a few more steps, not realizing they'd stopped.  He slows though, reins pulling back in Maria's firm grip.  His head turns over his shoulder to look at them, ears swiveling about curiously. 

Eliza tilts her head up toward the sky, and stares.  She hadn't been paying attention.  Not that it'd matter really, but the sky has started to become coated with dark clouds.  There's a storm coming.  Thunder cracks again in the distance, and though it's only been a few seconds—it sounds closer.

Squinting at the horizon, she can even make out the first streaks of rain.  Birds are fast taking cover, and the wind's starting to pick up.  Even the smell of the air has shifted.  Ozone wafts around the road, a sharp crackle of electricity flashes about the sky.  She can smell the water.  Thick and dewy.  Earthy pine rising up from the ground.

They've still a few hours to go, but the storm's not going to wait that long.  "One step at a time," Maria counsels her softly, and Eliza nods.  She lets her eyes stray toward Susan and Phil.  Susan's holding Phil tight, but her face is still streaked with sweat, and her eyes are not focusing properly.  She's been pushing herself far more than any child should in her condition.  Struggling as hard as she can to stay awake.  To not drop Phil.

And Phil...he's already sleeping.  Shaking and jerking against Susan in small little bursts.  Eliza wonders how long he's been at it, but the tremors aren't too bad just yet.  They may have time.  Though not much of it.

Urging Victor on, Maria walks with long purposeful strides.  Eliza struggles to keep up, knowing that they need to move as quickly as they can.  At the very least, their belongings and gear will be soaked through and their books destroyed.  That's saying nothing of the dangers of the illnesses growing worse, and new sickness to combine. 

Shifting her weight so she's holding the stick with two hands, Eliza pushes it hard in front of her.  Digs the end into the ground and hoists herself forward with each stumbling step.  She heaves air through her teeth and she glares at the muddy trail.  Huge brown splotches splash onto their legs.  Victor's hooves splatter it even more. 

When the rain falls, it does so with immediate mockery.  No sooner does Eliza feel the first drop strike her nose, when the deluge begins.  It's much like holding one's head under a waterfall.  Or standing still as someone upends a bucket upon you.  Eliza's hair is soaked with water.  Her face is so moist she can feel droplets streaming down her cheeks.  Her grip slips around her stick, and her cloths—

"What in the world?" Maria's stopped walking again.  She's staring down at herself, and Eliza cannot blame her.  She's doing much the same.  Their clothes are strangely dry.

Eliza watches as the water droplets touch the exterior of the clothing and just slip right off.  The heat that she feared they'd lose to the chill seems to be unaffected entirely.  While her skin and hair and shoes continue to be soaked straight through, she cannot explain why her clothing and body beneath are dry.  Remaining dry even though the wind blows the water straight upon the fabric.

Maria turns to look at the children, and they're the same.  Clothing dry and impervious to the water that attempts to chill their bones.  Without hesitation, Maria hurries to the saddlebags. Withdraws one of their spare blouses and tells Susan to cover her and Philip's head with it.  She does so immediately. Unbuttoning the shirt and holding over them both like a shawl.

The water still won't go through.  It keeps them dry.  "I don't understand," Eliza tells Maria as a new garment is thrust into her hands.  Maria shrugs her shoulders.

"It's not our place to understand miracles, just say thank you when they arrive," she replies stiffly.  She's hard at work, wrapping food and books up with their strangely water-proof clothing.  And when she's finished, she's got a shirt around her head as well, and a grin set upon her features. "If it's not a sign that we're going to succeed, I don't know what is."

How Maria maintains such positivity in her life, Eliza doesn't think she'll ever understand.  She follows Maria like a moth to a flame, desperate to learn more. To be comforted by her knowledge and understanding.

They hurry along, but Maria laughs every so often.  Fearless in the face of a storm.  Even as lightening flickers up above and as thunder crashes all around, Maria is simply amused.  Scientific in her research of their strange miracle.  She hops about in the mud puddles and watches as the dirt and moisture cling to her trousers, but the water does not penetrate.  Her skin beneath stays dry.

Eliza tries to think when the last time their clothes had gotten wet properly.  The weather had held well for the past few weeks, and the only time had been when she'd cleaned them with—

"Rachel," Eliza whispers.

"What was that?" Maria asks, turning to face her.  Her shirt is pulled over her head like Mother Mary, and with the horse and children in hand she looks just like a traveler from the good book seeking salvation.

"Rachel," Eliza says a little louder.  "The ghost I met." From the look on Maria's face, she had no idea what Eliza was talking about.  "The day I did the wash?  I'd met a ghost.  She assisted me in washing the clothes."  And now they weren't getting wet.  Just like they had miraculously dried that day.

The cloth strips that Maria's been using had been separate.  Gauze wraps that they'd purchased for bandages or tears of fabric that were no longer whole.  Nothing that Rachel had touched or handled had been tested thus far, and even her clothes had been suspiciously free of blood stains from her back.  Despite bleeding through the wraps more often than not.

"You washed clothes with a ghost?"  Maria asked, seeming to have a hard time understanding what Eliza was telling her.

"Phantom, I think," Maria amends.  "I'm fairly certain she was a phantom."

From the way Maria's eyes are still wide and her mouth still seems to hang open, the alteration does not make matters better. "She," Maria clarifies.

"Yes...?"

"How have you not lost your life yet? Between phantoms and ghosts and wraiths, my God Eliza you have either no luck or all the luck in the world."

Startled, Eliza has no idea how to reply.  She tries to think of something appropriate, but nothing comes to mind. "That's hardly true," she mumbles awkwardly.

"Only time I've ever heard of a phantom doing anything  _ nice  _ for someone was right before they passed on," Maria continues.  She doesn't pay attention to Eliza's attempt to setting the record straight.  Either she doesn't care, or she didn't hear.  It's probably a mix of both. 

The rain keeps coming down with all the precision of a little drummer boy. Ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tat-tat, ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tat-tat.  She tries to tell Maria of her analogy, but it takes three times before she can hear her.  By then Eliza's taken to miming the action for her benefit.

Maria laughs when she does get it though, and she nods her head.  "Can just imagine it, can't you? A boy on his death march tapping through the night.  Pied piper only with a snare instead of a pipe."

Yes.  She could imagine it.

So many children had died during the war, it's not hard to fathom a little drummer boy still wandering the battlefield with his drum.  It's a far more sobering thought than she'd like to think of now, made more so by the darkening sky.

They hurry just a bit more, wet road slowing them even despite their good fortune with their clothes.  The wind sprays their skin with mist, and Victor is miserable and soaked clear through.  Apparently Rachel's gift did not apply to horses.  He plods forward but with great frustration.  Makes noises and complaints, drags his feet.  He's unhappy and he's making his position quite clear.  Susan even needs to kick the horse a few times, urging him forward when no amount of jerking on the reins encourages him to do so.

The sun is just starting to set as they reach the outer wall of Mount Vernon.  Someone's set an oil line ablaze already, and the circle is rich and thick. Burning even with the rain coming down as hard as it has. The gates are shut, but Eliza wastes no time knocking on the great door.  One of the wall patrolmen look out over at them, squinting at their party in confusion.

"Who's that then?"  They're asked immediately, and Eliza swipes her wet hair from her face as she tries to make out who's speaking. She's not entirely sure, to be honest.  So much had changed with the... _ staff... _ after Washington had died.  His slaves had been freed, leaving Martha only with her dowry slaves, and although Martha had respected his wishes to not purchase new hands, she'd been rigid in her selection on paid servants.  They came and went with a kind of migrant feel to them.  Some even running away as opposed to finishing out their contracts.

Eliza doesn't recognize this man, and she wishes truly that she'd thought to write ahead to Martha prior to arriving at her doorstep.  "Eliza Hamilton," she says as loudly as she can.  The sky is starting to turn a thick inky blue, and her heart beats faster in her chest as her ears try picking up the sounds of the wraiths.  "Please, may you open the door?"

"We're not expectin' any visitors," the man tells her simply.  "I've been given strict instructions not to open this door to no one unless I've got permission from the Lady."

"Yes, yes, but the  _ Lady  _ has already given me permission," she counters.  "I'm Eliza Hamilton, Lady Washington would be most gratified to know of my presence."  She hopes.

The man throws his hands up in a 'what can you do' gesture.  "I've not been told of such things."

"Then send someone to find out!" Maria argues. The man turns his attention to  _ her  _ now.

"Who're you then?"

"It doesn't matter who  _ she  _ is," Eliza snaps.  "Send someone to tell Lady Washington that Eliza Hamilton and her children are here, and that the night walkers are almost out."  The man shrugs again.

"Can't send anyone, I'm the only one here and I'm not to leave my post."

It's a circular argument, one that isn't going to lead them anywhere.  Eliza can't help but glance over her shoulder.  The shadows on the ground seem so much longer now.  The wind in the leaves seem so much more sinister.  She can feel Maria's hand on her arm.  Steadying her.  "It's going to be all right," Maria swore.  "Just wait."

But the faintest sounds of howls have started, and Victors hooves are starting to prance about.  "Shout a message, send a flare, just  _ tell  _ her I'm here!" Eliza argues desperately.  "Good God man, do you not see the sun has fallen?  Shall you leave us out in the dark?"

"I'm not to open the gates to anyone unless the Lady gives permission."

"We've already  _ got  _ it, you just need to confirm it.  Please confirm it!"

A screaming noise curls about the rain.  Echoing in tandem with the drum beat on the water.  Ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tat-tat.  Eliza's hands start to shake and she squeezes them tight. Left gripping the stick with every ounce of energy she has remaining, right forming a fist.  "My name is  _ Eliza  _ Hamilton, my husband was  _ Alexander  _ Hamilton.  I've permission to enter Mount Vernon.  And if you do not open this door right now, you'll be disrespecting the very household you serve."

"I'm following the Lady's command, you could be the President himself and I'd not let you in these gates. I—" his head turned.  Someone's voice is calling out to him on the other side of the wall, and he hurriedly answers them.  Voice lost on the wind.  Eliza thinks she can hear her name, thinks that she might just be able to make out the sounds of a command being given, but she's not certain.

Silence falls on the wall.  And it is as pervasive as the rising sounds of the night walkers emerging from their slumber.  Maria steps out and slams her fist against the door.  "Let us in you brute,"  she orders, and she slams her fist again.  Eliza feels as if she's frozen in place.  Terror seizing her as the cuts on her back starts to screech in agony.

She looks back into the night.  There's a black cloak flickering just down the road.  White face bright as the moon.  A hole in its head—she recoils. Stumbles.  Maria starts screaming in earnest. Eliza's heart hammers in her chest and—

The door starts to open.  It's pulled back slowly, but when it is wide enough for a person to step through, Eliza stares at the much beloved face of Martha Washington.

"Eliza, dear." She's just as calm and as placid as ever.  "I think it'd be best if you came inside." The door opens wide, and they're across the threshold before the wraith can even get close. "Welcome to Mount Vernon." 


	16. Martha

Mount Vernon is unlike anywhere else in the world.  Even now, with rain pouring down upon them and wraiths colliding against the main wall that circles the property, there is an indomitable sense of peace and stability that exists here. The grass is kept at remarkable heights, the property is well maintained.  Trees are planted purely for aesthetic purposes, while also catering to an intensely functional desire for fruits and shading.  The paths are carefully constructed.  Cobblestone setting deep into the earth with the greatest attention to detail.

Eliza never had trouble imagining the good General lowering himself to the ground and laying brick by hand.  And perhaps that runs entirely counter to her image of the General also ordering his slaves to do it for him.  Heroes, Eliza reminds herself, can be quite different in reality.

As much as Washington had loved members of his military family, Lafayette, Alexander, and John had all begged Washington to not subscribe to the act of slave ownership.  Yet here Mount Vernon stood.  The product of intense design and methodical planning.  The product of years and years of slave labor.

There's an irony there that Eliza's never dared speak up to Martha directly.  Some battles are not worth having.  Martha has made her position on slave ownership very clear.  She has no intentions of changing her ways, and Eliza's not planning on having that discussion today of all days.

For a woman who's been called everything from the First Lady of the United States of America, to the Mother of America, to simply Martha, the proud owner of Mount Vernon is impossibly tiny.  Hardly five feet three inches, she's smaller than Eliza by quite a bit.  She's wider, though, and she carries her age in a way that Eliza doubts she'll ever be able to.

With her bonnet on her head and her shawl around her shoulder, Martha Washington is both a figure of aged wisdom and amused fondness.  She takes Eliza's hands in hers and wraps her arms around Eliza's body.  Kisses her cheeks in the French way before holding her hands up for inspection.  "What  _ have  _ you done to yourself, my dear girl?"  Martha asks her.  Southern drawl so warm and welcoming.

Whenever Martha spoke Eliza always imagined that  _ this  _ was what home felt like.  She'd never lived in the south, had always lived in New York or Pennsylvania.  Yet Martha's voice carried a kind of quality that made Eliza long for fireplaces and hearths.  Pianos and parlors.  She leans her head down to rest against Martha's shoulder.  It's highly inappropriate, and she can feel Martha startle beneath her touch, but the woman pats her back anyway.

The gesture would have been far more appreciated had she not struck directly above her wounds.  Eliza flinches.  Her knees buckle, Maria shoots her hands out and catches her under her arms as she starts to crumble.  "Good Lord—Jameson! Jameson come here at once! See to the Widow Hamilton,  _ now!" _

The reminder burns.  For weeks she's been simply Eliza.  Lady.  Hamilton on its own.  And yet now it's back.  The harsh streak of pain and torment that burns through her like a knife.  Just as painful as the gashes that mar her skin and the sickness that holds her children hostage.  She squeezes her eyes shut.

_ Your husband is dead, and you're meant to be mourning. _

She's not in her mourning clothes.  She should be in her mourning clothes.  Hair tucked into a bonnet, black coating her from her shoulders to her heels.  Shawl draped above her head if she forsook the bonnet.  Tears press against her eyes, hidden by the rain.  She's so tired of being sad all the time.

Jameson appears and Eliza tries to get her feet underneath her. Failing badly and only relying on Maria's endless strength to keep upright.  When Jameson utters a brief "beggin' your pardon, mi'lady," she doesn't have a chance to protest before she's lifted up in the air and held within his arms.  She arches her back, hissing as the he presses against her wounds.  Maria hisses for him to move his arm further up toward her shoulders, and Eliza loses time.

Between the gates and the house she has no memory of crossing the beautiful fields of Mount Vernon.  Only the stunning sensation of light as it burns into her eyes once they step into the main house's foyer.  She squeezes her eyes shut and she tries to twist away, but there's nowhere to go and Jameson holds her firm.

Panic sets in and she tries to wriggle free.  Unable to do anything to get away.  "Hush, Lady," Maria tells her from somewhere over her right shoulder.  She turns to try to see her. "It's all right."  There! Maria's standing with Phil in her arms.  Holding her son on her hip, rocking him even as someone else assists Susan.

Martha's hovering around them all, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders.  Lips pursed with displeasure.  "Up the stairs to the guest rooms please," Martha commands, authority slipping from her tone with ease.  Jameson hurries to do just that, taking the stairs several at a time while Martha orders someone else to fetch a doctor.

The guest rooms are quite noticeably turned down.  A proper guest would have waited for the staff to set them right, but the urgency of their arrival made it impossible.  Maria argues for them all to be in one room, and Eliza's lowered down onto a bed almost as soon as it's clear she's won that particular argument.  Jameson apologizes for carrying her so roughly, but Eliza forgives him immediately.  It wasn't his fault, and he did the best he could.

Even so, her back feels as though someone's rubbed it raw with nettles, and she can feel her ribs providing equal protest within her torso.  Several more people quickly fill into the room.  Lanterns are lit, a fire is drawn up in the fireplace in the corner.  Eliza's head is spinning too quickly to try to place names to faces, and searches instead for Maria.

Her friend is standing not far away, still rocking Philip. But when she catches Eliza's eyes she steps closer.  Places Philip on the bed and cups a hand to Eliza's cheek.  "You all right?" she asks firmly, and Eliza nods.

"I'm sorry," she starts, not sure how else to express the sudden flare of embarrassment that threatens to take her over.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Martha replies as she bustles into the room.  She's got fresh clothes in her arms, and cloth for them to dry off with.  She shoos the staff out once the room is made cozy and starts to warm. All that remains to be seen to are their injuries and their physical well being.  "And you don't need to be here for that," she tells them all.  Jameson promising to not be far in case Martha needs him.  

Martha closes the door behind him.  Clicking it shut with a gentle press of her palm.  She draws herself up to an impressive height for such a diminutive figure, and places her fists on her hips.  "Eliza Hamilton what  _ have  _ you done to yourself?"

Shame floods Eliza's body, and her throat constricts as she tries to explain the events of the past few days.  Nothing comes out.  She’s more focused now than she had been before.  Her energy is starting to rebound within her, but with it come the tears.  Hot tears press against her eyes and she tries to remind herself that this is her friend, and that Martha's concerned for her.  "Wraiths, your...grace?"  Maria tries awkwardly in her stead.

Apparently when it comes directly  _ to  _ speaking to Martha, Maria's equally as uncomfortable.  While she'd shown no trouble arguing with Martha's staff, Maria's far too cognizant of Martha's stature to not have  _ some  _ degree of hesitation. And Martha doesn't correct her.  She's never been the type to argue over trivialities, though Eliza knows she laughed herself hoarse over some of Adam's attempts at honoring Washington.  Each honorific progressively more absurd than the last, until Eliza had been certain Alexander'd been making them all up.

He hadn't been.

George Washington confirmed it himself, hand weary against his brow.  Shaking his head in abject misery.  He loathed the spotlight until the day he died.  And while Martha was better suited to navigating it, he'd chafed if it became too oppressive.  "I'm afraid I don't recognize you, miss...?" Martha trails off.  Raising a brow encouragingly as Maria fumbles over her word.

"Maria...ehm...Lewis.  You wouldn't know—"

"—You're Maria Reynolds," Martha interjects, her expression turning uncharacteristically frosty.

"—Me," Maria gulps.

Martha's eyes narrow as they roam over Maria's body.  From head to toe she clearly takes catalog.  Eliza watches as Martha scans Maria's unkempt hair, her dirty cheeks, her filthy clothes that are miraculously still dry, the trail of mud she's caked into the house, as well as the calloused and knobby fingers on Maria's hands.  She takes inventory of what makes up the former Maria Reynolds, and then she does the exact same thing to Eliza.

When he'd returned from the war, Alexander once mumbled that they didn't need any spies to determine the British' plans, they only needed Martha Washington to sit in a room filled with soldiers.  She'd find the answers they sought and it wouldn't even take her very long.  At the time, Eliza hardly understood what he'd meant.  But she's seen Martha unleash this particular power on the world before.  She's seen her stare down Georges when he'd tried to hide his brilliant scheme to return to France and free his family from the dungeons.  She'd seen her stare down her husband when he swore he wasn't ill.

While she carried neither the unimaginable beauty of some socialites, nor the classic fashion of her peers, Martha Washington found her talents in diving knowledge from those who didn't feel like offering it in turn.  But unlike Alexander who would have taken all his knowledge and immediately enacted steps to prove how brilliant he was, or even the good General who would have made a decision based on the facts, Martha’s lips thin.

Her pursed mouth loses its tension.  She straightens her back and actually smiles at them.  “I’ve called for a physician,” she tells them.  “He should be here shortly.  I’ll have someone fetch some water for washing.  Do you need any assistance, dears?”  

_ Dears.   _ Plural.  Eliza lets out a long slow breath of air.  She hadn’t realized how tense she’d become as she waited for Martha’s approval.  Maria’s still coiled tight.  Still doesn’t seem to realize Martha’s acceptance has already been granted.  She reaches a hand out and catches Maria’s palm.  Gives it a squeeze.  Maria’s confused brown eyes slowly turn toward her.  “Do you have any water, Martha?”  Eliza asks softly.  Her throat croaks when she speaks.  She’s being rude, but she doesn’t look back to Martha as she talks.  Just looks at Maria.   _ It’s okay,  _ she thinks,  _ we’re going to be okay here. _

“Of course, Eliza.  I’ll send up some food as well,” ever the good southern hostess.  “Is there anything that should be avoided?”  Allergies?

“No,” Eliza shakes her head.  Finally she meets her friend’s gaze.  There’s something hidden behind Martha’s eyes, but she’s impossible to decipher.  She knows exactly what parts of the face reveal which hidden secrets, and so she keeps her face placid and calm. 

Shifting a little, and feeling more than a little rude for not standing while her friend is attending to them, Eliza winces once more.  Martha’s eyes narrow and she strides across the room toward them.  “May I?”  she asks.  Angelica would have just had Eliza strip immediately, but Martha restrains herself.  She’s worried though, Eliza can see it so clearly in her face.  Everything about tonight is strange and out of character for both of them.

Eliza nods, and Maria steps forward.  She undoes Eliza’s blouse with familiar movements.  They’ve done this so many times before.  The shirt falls from Eliza’s shoulders, and Martha assists in undoing the wrap.  Gauze falls around Eliza’s hips, and Maria helps her move her hair over her shoulder.  It hangs before her breasts, offering her meager modesty that seems unnecessary after all this time.

Martha doesn’t release any crude exhalations.  Nor does she consult prayer.  She has served as a wartime wife, stayed on battlefields while her husband fought his wars.  She’s held boys down as their limbs were removed from their bodies.  Stroked their hair as bullets were pulled from their thighs.  She’s seen far worse than Eliza’s back.

Still, she brings her fingers to the gashes and she lets her hand hover over the wound.  She feels the heat that come from her flesh, and she scopes out its overall injury.  She frowns as she inspects the deep bruising that circles Eliza’s chest.  The red marks that linger above her broken ribs.  “That’s not all,” she correctly deduces.

Slowly, Eliza’s trousers are pulled down, her feet are pulled from their shoes.  Maria is still standing there, biting her lip uncertainly as she looks at them all.  “Sit down, Miss. Lewis,” Martha sighs.  “You need not stand there.  I saw you walking as well, please.” 

Slowly, Maria does sit.  She looks like a scolded child, waiting to be disciplined for poor behavior.  But Martha doesn’t take note of such things.  Instead, she assists in removing the wraps around Eliza’s feet.  She squints at the blistering flesh and the bloody sores that she’s acquired.  “You as well I’m sure?”  Martha asks Maria calmly.

Maria answers far less calmly, “Ehm…yes…your grace…”

“Martha, dear, please, or Lady Washington if propriety is in your head.”

“L-Lady Washington.”  It’s strange, to see Maria so subservient after all this time.  Strange to see how her head ducks away so she doesn’t make eye contact.  How she addresses Martha as if she herself were a part of Martha’s staff. 

In all the years Eliza’s known Martha Washington, she’d never felt cowed.  Never felt the urge to play supplicant beneath her.  She felt the desire to respect and obey, certainly, but not wait on each breath for an order to come.  Maria acts as if she’s going to be sent to fetch them their wares herself. 

And when she realizes the reason, Eliza takes Maria’s hand and holds it tight.   _ She’s a laundress for the rich.   _ And Martha is as rich as they come.  Maria is acting like she expects to be treated like staff, because she  _ is  _ Martha’s staff.  Perhaps not in reality, but in theory.  Maria’s never been friends with the wealthy.  She’s never been welcomed into their homes and treated as an equal. 

When there’s a knock at the door, and Martha wraps her shawl about Eliza’s body to provide her with modesty, Maria’s never watched another answer the door  _ for  _ her.  But Martha goes, she opens the door and accepts the bowl of warm water that’s given to her.  She accepts the cloth that comes with it.  She shares words with whomever brought the items, and then returns.

Kneels at their feet and tenderly reaches for Maria’s shoes.  “N-no, ma’am.  I can—I can—”

“Hush, child,” Martha commands.  “You’re exhausted.” 

She is.  She may not have the aches and sores that Eliza does, but she’s been slowing down time and again.  She’s been stumbling and struggling to keep moving forward.  Maria’s exhausted.  And Martha knows.  She always knows.

Martha reveals Maria’s bloodied soles to the world, and Maria whimpers quietly as the blisters are touched.  “I’m sorry,” Martha tells her gently. 

“No-no it-it’s fine.  I—”

“Hush,” Eliza tells Maria.  She reaches up and cups Maria’s cheek.  “It’ll be all right.”  Maria nods at her.  Biting her bottom lip. 

Martha gently lifts the cloth and sinks it into the warm water.  She focuses on Maria’s feet first.  Swiping the dirt and the streaks of blood back.  Massaging the tender muscles and the stiff ligaments.  When she finishes, she lets Maria sink her feet into the bowl fully.  Lets her relax into the gentle sensation. 

A second bowl arrives only moments later fresh clothing with it.  Martha repeats the process with Eliza.  She’s silent as she works, but her movements are practiced and easy.  She knows how to do this, and she wastes no time. The soothing strokes alleviate all the tension in Eliza’s body.  The burst of energy she’d felt earlier has started to dissipate and exhaustion is now dragging her down to the depths of her soul.

Martha sets her cloth aside and stands slowly.  Bones creaking.  She helps Maria and Eliza dress.  She spares a glance at Susan and Phil, both sleeping soundly and without any notion that they should change.  She doesn’t bother to wake them.  Instead, she cups Eliza’s face and kisses her crown.  “Sleep dear child,” she tells her.  And when she looks at Maria, she smiles soft and kind.  “All of you need rest.”

Gratitude is wordless.  It comes in so many forms.  But in this moment, it is a shapeless void.  A well of emotion.  A nod of acceptance.  A smile and a wish for pleasant dreams.  Martha departs as regally as any woman who ever walked the earth, and Eliza lays down on a true and proper bed for the first time since she left home.  Inns will never amount to the feeling of a real home.

Maria lays down as well, and Eliza wraps her arms around Maria’s waist.  Pulls her close and rests her head against Maria’s spine.  She can’t hear the night walkers.  She breathes in…she breathes out…and she’s falling….falling…

Fall—


	17. Faith

Eliza wakes up slowly.  At some point in the night, Maria’s rolled onto her back and Eliza’s curled up with her head against Maria’s chest.  She opens her eyes slowly and she blinks blearily at the sunlight that shimmers in from the outside.  She sits up.  Muscles still aching. But the pain is a dull ache.  A throbbing under the skin that hasn’t yet ascended to the sharp stinging of knives tearing through flesh.

She looks to the children first.  Both curled around each other and sleeping soundly.  Their chests rise and fall with air, and Eliza rubs at her eyes.  At least for now everyone seems to be all right.

Sliding from the bed, she puts her feet on the ground.  Her blisters grumble with protest, but make no more than a token flare of annoyance.  Martha had left clothing for them all folded neatly on a desk.  She’d taken their clothes to be washed, and Eliza carefully makes her way to the new attires.

Dresses for her, Susan, and Maria. A light shirt and a pair of breeches for Phil.  His clothes seem to have been dusted off from wherever Martha had kept them in storage.  Jackie’s perhaps?  Eliza tries to remember the names of Martha’s sons.  They slip away like fog.  Martha’s children had been grown and gone by the time she’d become friends with her.  She didn’t speak of them often.

Selecting a pale green frock, Eliza carefully slides the dress over her body.  The tie secured in the front.  The bodice capable of adjustments so as not to exert too much pressure on her back.  She’s eternally grateful to Martha’s thoughtfulness.

Dressed at long last, she finds a brush nearby.  Her hands go to it immediately and she lifts it up.  Treasuring the feel of it.  She sits at a chair before a small desk, tucked into the corner of the room.  Taking her long hair in hand, she grips it tight with one fist, then uses the other to carefully brush the knots from the ends.

Each bristle snags on the army of knots, but Eliza finds that she doesn’t care how long it takes.  She just wants her hair brushed.  She is merciless on the mess.  Tearing at it with dedicated precision. Her muscles complain whenever she exerts too much pressure, but she’s become better and better at ignoring the feeling.  At pushing it to the back of her mind and letting it stay there to rot.

When the knots at the end finally come loose, she slides her hand up and repeats the process.  Each slide of the brush is a victory in of itself.  She is familiar with this sensation.  It’s part of a routine that she’s kept since well before her wedding night.  Brushing her hair and washing her face, preparing for the day.  Clean hands and clean body, she feels empowered and motivated to move forward.

She slides the brush through, closing her eyes and sighing in pleasure as the tangles come loose leaving only the silky smooth run of bristles in her locks.  Even long after the knots have been conquered, she continues to brush.  Gives into how lovely it feels and just spends the time to embrace it.  Find pleasure in every part of the experience.

She wonders idly if she could convince Maria to brush her hair for her.  Or if Maria would think it’s demeaning or rude.  She means nothing by it…just enjoys the feeling of her hair being touched.  Being stroked and tended to.  Sometimes Alexander would…

Eliza sets the brush back onto the dresser.  She’s so tired of remembering what Alexander would or would not do.  Alexander’s not here.  And if she’s going to keep moving forward, what he _would_ have done doesn’t matter.  Only what she’s doing.  Here and now.

Standing up, she looks at herself in the reflective glass above the desk.  She almost recognizes the image she presents.  Her hair is perfect.  Her dress is beautiful.  She straightens her posture and feels how comfortable the new position is.  How her body relishes in returning to the poised picture of being a _lady._  But there’s something different about her she cannot understand.  Something nameless that makes her face seem just a touch… _off_ compared to her usual thoughts of what she looks like.

Her eyes are more tightly narrowed, her face more cut in stone.  She looks…like the men who came home after the war had ended.  Boys when they’d left, but now…a darkness lurks behind their eyes never to be unseen.  “Don’t be absurd,” Eliza whispers.  The analogy, she thinks, is likely very rude.  She’s not been to war.  How would her experiences compare?

Quietly stepping from the room, she spares a final glance at Maria and the children.  They’re still at peace, and she wishes to leave them that way for a time longer.  She has no notion when they’ll be leaving, but she knows that they will have to continue on soon.  They’re running out of time, and they’re getting so close…

Eliza finds Martha in her parlor.  She has a hoop on her lap and is carefully sliding her needle through the fabric stretched tight between the hoop's compress.  In and out, in and out.  Martha's needlepoint has always been precise.  Although it lacks the flair and imagination of some women's, Martha retained a consistency to her patterns.  She excelled at flowers.  Much of her linens and clothes had carefully stitched flowers reaching up along the sides.

The Grange had at least four different such clothes folded in amongst the drawers.  Eliza hesitated to use them, though practicality demanded it of her.  Still, the thought of somehow harming the gift made her hesitate each time.  And once used, she always dedicated careful time and attention to cleaning each cloth.

"You're far too fragile to be standing in the doorway, dear,"  Martha chides without looking over her shoulder. Suitably chastised, Eliza slowly creeps inside.  Finding her seat across from Lady Washington.

"How did you know it was me?"

"I could hear you walking down the stairs," Martha replies.  She hasn't looked up yet form her needlepoint.  Instead, she focuses on the center of what appears to be a sunflower.  Carefully looping her black thread in amongst the yellow.  "You knew where you were going, even if you took your time about it.  I suspect Ms. Lewis will not be as comfortable wandering about the house."  She finishes her final loop and she knots it along the back, snipping the thread loose and sliding her needle free.

Securing the needle in the fabric with a quick tuck, she settles the hoop to the side.  Folds her hands in her lap, then looks up to meet Eliza's eyes.  Eliza finds herself filled with the strangest desire to go to her.  Kneel before her like a child and hug her.  Relish in the embrace that she knows Martha will give her.  It's been so long since she's seen her friend, and after all this time her care and compassion is one of the few things Eliza thinks she could crumble for.

"I've missed you," she admits.  Her voice cracks along the words.  Watery even though she's not nearly close to tears.  She feels her eyes burning though, and it distracts from her injuries.  Distracts from a lot of things.

Her borrowed dress feels so strange after so long in breeches and blouse.  The tight confines of her sleeves and the way the bodice clings to her offers a strange form of comfort she hadn't realized she missed.  Her legs feel free beneath her skirt, her hips feel unconfined.  The modesty of her gown, offers a bizarre feeling of peace.

She's grateful she took the time to dress appropriately. Took the time to brush her hair and clean her face.  Just sitting before Martha, fresh and composed, feels so much better.  Even though her ribs still ache and her back and feet will likely continue to mark their protest, she feels so much more at ease than she had only twelve hours previously.

Martha's lips spread into a polite smile, and she reaches a hand out.  Places it on Eliza's folded ones.  "And I as well.  I confess...I did not think that I'd see you again."  Her words carry more melancholy than someone of her age and stature should feel.  Eliza twists her wrist.  Squeezes her palm to Martha's, holding her tender but tight.

"I'm sorry."  She should have done more to honor _their_ friendship.  With their husbands dead and their children growing or grown, there had been little to keep them from seeing one another if either had put the energy into the journey.  Eliza should have taken the opportunity beforehand.  But, "After Alexander...one day slipped into another into another.  I found that I did not even speak to my own family let alone pen letters to dear friends."

Their hands tightened with each passing second.  Securing and promising that they're both still here.  Both still alive despite everything.  Widows who had seen the glory their husbands wrought, and who had only memories of legacies to hold onto in the cold of the night.  "I understand, dear."  Martha's eyes sag some around the corners.  Her skin droops more than it used to.  She's older than Eliza remembers her being, but it does nothing to hide the strength within her bones.  "Sometimes," Martha tells her softly.  "There are no words."

Eliza closes her eyes.  She breathes in and she lets it out, and she feels the memory of Martha's reply turn around and around in her head.  She's lived her life not knowing if she had any words to share.  Lived it feeling, more often than not, that she would never be able to amount to anything proper.  Because she didn't have the phrasing right.  Because she didn't have the  
understanding correct.  Because she couldn't express the millions of emotions and pains that constantly filled her body.

At the end of it all, though.  Martha's right.  Sometimes there are no words.  Sometimes there is nothing to say.  There is nothing that can be done.  There are no lives that can be altered by one more person's quiet exhalation.  By one more utterance.

Martha holds her hands tight, and Eliza counsels herself not to cry.  She straightens her spine, and she finds the words that _do_ come.  The ones that she _can_ say.  "Phil is sick," she starts.  Martha listens.

She listens with a quiet intensity.  Eyes sharp and discerning.  She nods her head at certain moments, but she does not speak.  Does not offer her advice or her opinion.  She only keeps her gaze on Eliza, and allows Eliza the opportunity to tell her story.  She tells everything she can.  The bankers that have come to usher her out of the Grange (Martha's eyes narrowed at that, though she held her sharp tongue), Phil's sudden illness and the doctor who came for him, the decision to leave everything behind in hopes of finding Phil salvation.

Maria.

Eliza stumbles only a little, she loses her place only once.  Distracted by her feelings of _now,_ and having a hard time putting them in perspective of her feelings of only a few weeks ago.  Before she left, she'd have never imagined willfully sleeping in the same bed with Maria Reynolds.  But she finds herself longing for her friend's companionship.  For the comfort provided by having one more person there beside her.  To let her know that she's doing well.  That even though this is not the battlefield she's used to, she can still triumph at the end of the day.

Throughout it all, Martha sits with perfect poise and she accepts every word Eliza tells her.  She doesn't navigate of offer any words of advice.  She doesn't lead the story astray with anecdotes or questions.  Eliza is given the freedom to speak the words she longs to speak and not become side-tracked halfway through.

When she's finished, and the words have had enough.  She flicks her tongue out and licks her dry lips.  Martha plucks a pitcher of water from the stand near her chaise and pours her a glass.  Hands it to her to drink.  She swallows whole mouthfuls, and feels a dribble slip out from the cracks of her lips.  She swipes at it indelicately, flushing the whole while.

But when she attempts to apologize, she's waved off immediately.  "Please," Martha tells her.  "That is hardly my concern, my dear child."  Settling the pitcher back on her stand, Martha adjusts herself.  Shifting her skirt so it's no longer bunched around her waist.  Fixing how her bodice sits.  She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, though the morning heat has already started and Eliza suspects that it will only become warmer in the home.

"I've come unannounced to your home," Eliza murmurs softly, and Martha _scoffs_ at the notion.

"My dear Eliza, if I came to you in the middle of the night, cold and sick from rain, terrors behind me and stomach empty, would you leave me on your doorstep too?"  It's a rhetorical question, and it doesn't make Eliza smile.

"Whether I'd let you in or not does not change the matter of the inconvenience it provides.  You were out after dark, in the rain, to let us in.  And you were up quite late last night tending to us.  Summoning doctors for an illness you did not know you were letting into your home."

Her hostess doesn't scoff again, but it's a near thing.  Martha seems to be taking personal offense to every word that leaves Eliza's mouth, and grimaces at her poor form.  "Eliza, dear, I've let continental soldiers hide on this property while the British searched door to door for any who dared challenge them.  If you wish to say your thanks then I will accept them, but you will talk no more of debt or burden.  I assure you, I am pleased to have you in my home."

There's a polite knock at the door and a young black woman approaches, head down and posture expectant.  "Mister Burns is here for you, Lady Washington.”  Martha thanks the woman politely and hoists herself to her feet.  She offers Eliza a chance to sit and rest, but she doesn't accept.

Instead, she balances herself on her feet as best she can and follows after Martha.  She's swiftly introduced to Martha's physician, Mr. Burns, and together they ascend the stairs.  Burns is a somewhat young man, likely close to Maria's age, dressed plainly and with tight cloth case.  Eliza can hear the clink of glass vials as they tap against each other with each step.

Martha stops him before they enter the bedroom, and Eliza slips around them both and enters alone.  Closing the door behind her.  Maria's already awake, sitting upright in bed with the children.  Borrowed dress already wrapped around her frame. " You look _lovely,"_ Eliza says before she can stop herself.

It's true.  Maria's body is _gorgeous._ Wrapped in the bright candy orange frock.  Her tanned skin mixes so well with the careful hues, her hair just the right shade of brown.  Eliza can't help but let her mind wander.  How she wants to take Maria's hair and tie it into spirals.  Paint her face and dust her eyes.  She wants to spend hours lavishing lotions and oils on Maria so when people see her they _see_ her.

Even sitting here, face washed with left over water, and cheeks flushing in the morning light, Maria very easily could pass for any of the true and proper _ladies_ that she enjoys teasing so thoroughly.  "I feel strange," Maria tells her.

Her lips twist in an almost grimace, and Eliza shakes her head.  "No, no you look wonderful.  Truly."  She wants to touch.  She stumbles forward and reaches a hand out to lightly run her fingers over the sleeve.  Maria lifts her arm to allow her greater access, and Eliza finds herself wrapping her fingers around it completely.  She can feel Maria's body heat against her palm.  

Maria's got a small streak of gold in her eyes.  They're not completely brown.  Gold like the sun on a fall day.  Her cheeks are flushed, but not all of it's blood.  The sun's left a burn around her cheeks.  Over the bridge of her nose.  It doesn't detract from anything.   _Sun kissed,_ she recalls hearing once.  Maria's cheeks have been sun kissed.

Realizing how close she's standing, Eliza licks her lips and shifts so she's holding Maria's hand.  "The physician is here for Susan and Phil," she tells her softly.  Nodding, Maria lets Eliza pull her to her feet.  Her hair moves a little around her head, curls shifting to reveal bare ears.  "Earrings," Eliza muses.  Mouth moving without her permission.  "You need earrings."

"I don't think I'm that kind of lady, Eliza," Maria tells her softly.

"That kind of Lady?" she asks.  But Maria doesn't answer.  Just shrugs a little as they walk to the door and announce it's okay for to come in.

Burns introduces himself to Maria politely before moving to Susan and Philip.  He frowns deep, reaching to press his fingers against Susan's wrist.  The back of his hand touches her head.  He squints at her face and leans over her. Staring at her chest as he watches her breathe.

Martha encourages them to sit together, chiding them for remaining on their feet.  She motions to the opposite side of the bed where they both can sit beside Phil and watch as Burns examines Susan. Susan, who sleeps soundly through the whole exchange, not reacting in the slightest when her limbs are poked and prodded.  Phil hasn't risen either, and Eliza feels anxiety starting to squeeze her heart and chest.  Twist her intestines so she considers whether she's about to become sick.

Good feelings fade away to nothingness as reality settles back into place.  Phil hasn't woken up at all yet today, and neither has Maria's daughter. "Neither of you have been afflicted?" Burns asks them curiously.

Maria's nails dig into the sides of Eliza's palm as she answers, "No, we've been fine."

"It's not an illness I've ever seen before," Burns admits quietly.  He leans over Susan's body and checks on Phil much the same way.  Breathing, heart, skin.  He examines Phil carefully and methodically.

"We've heard of your _plague,_ of course," Martha informs them as Burn works.  "But as of yet...it hasn't travelled south.  You've been travelling for several weeks now?" They nod. "I've not seen or heard of the plague anywhere except the north east."

"New York," Burns cuts in.  "The reports I've heard are from New York."  

"Philadelphia too," Maria adds.  Burns frowns as he looks at her.  "The family I work for...the Duers?  They had business in Philadelphia over the summer.  Lots o' people there got it.  When they returned to the city the Mayor had them looked over to make sure they weren't infected."

The physician makes a noncommittal noise and returns his attention back to the children.  But Martha hums tonelessly.  "The Duers?  I haven't heard that name in years.  It is a small world, isn't it?"

Eliza can't help but agree.  “I was surprised myself,” she admits.

“They’ve been making by, better every year.” Maria tacks on awkwardly.  “Business seems to be going real well…” It’s clear she doesn’t know what to say to Martha.  She keeps flicking her eyes up to look at the woman, then look away just as fast as though she couldn’t bare to keep her eyes on the woman one second longer.  

Martha, surprisingly, just seems amused by her behavior.  “I’m glad to hear that,” she says, they’ve had a hard time of it. Showing little to no concern with Maria’s tender-footed behavior.  “It’s nice to hear that they’ve had some progress in the meanwhile.”

The physician clears his throat and straightens his back. “Well, the Duers aside…there’s been no mention of the plague moving any further south.  And from what I can see…”  Burns reaches for his bag and withdraws a few vials.  “There’s nothing _causing_ this.  Illness, perhaps, but the symptoms — coughing, vomiting etc. They do not appear to have any understandable root.  It will be necessary to study them to devise any kind of cure.”

“We’re not looking for them to be studied,” Eliza tells the man.  He frowns at her.  “We’re traveling to the Long Lakes to find the griffons.”

He laughs.  It’s the only sound in the room.  His laugh bounces off the walls and he actually seems to believe that she’s been funny in her proclamation.  When he carries on a touch too long, however, Martha clears her throat.  “That’s quite enough,” she snaps, and he immediately sobers.

Apologizing as he straightens his cravat.  “You’ve come all this way to find the _griffons?_ Why risk your hand at fantasy and myth when a doct—”

“—Every doctor in New York and Pennsylvania have done nothing but study this plague,” Eliza replies shortly.  “As talented as you are, we do not have the time nor inclination to wait.  Our children are dying, sir.  And if there truly is no cure, then playing on fantasy does nothing but soothe a mother’s heart.”

His expression turns condescending.  He’s preparing to tell her what she already knows, _now listen ma’am, I know you mean well, but—_

“Mister Burns I do believe we’ve tired of your company,” Martha intervenes.  Burns recoils as though he’s been shot.  Martha couldn’t have surprised him more than if she’d torn her dress off and pranced about the room.  “Jameson will see you out, thank you for your assistance.”  She tilts her head a touch, and then corrects herself.  “Do please leave the poultices I requested at the door.  We’ll send your fee along shortly.”  

“I–well…yes.  Of course Lady Washington.”  He leaves slowly and quietly, as if waiting to be called back into the room.  He’s not.

Instead, Martha follows him to the door and shuts it behind him.  Turning to look back at Maria and Eliza.  “I’d very much appreciate it if you spent the night tonight.  Get your rest.  By the morning I’ll have to fresh horses secured for you, and fresh supplies for your journey.  We’ve some maps available and I’ve some missives I can give you about the last sightings of the griffons.”

“You believe us?” Maria asks.  It’s not, perhaps, the question she means to ask.  She’s missing a phrase or two.  But Martha has no trouble understanding Maria’s haphazard question.  She nods her head slowly and folds her hands before her body.

“Ms. Lewis, I’ve lived in these parts all my life.  The only thing a woman knows better than any man is that there is a time for science and regiment, and then there’s a time to believe.  Whole wars are won on the power of belief alone, and mothers save their children because they know more than anyone else ever gives them credit for.”  Maria doesn’t seem to know what to make of that statement.  She looks to Eliza for clarification, but Eliza has no time to speak.  Martha finishes her decree simply and eloquently.  “Faith, Ms. Lewis.  Sometimes all we have is faith.  And who is Mr. Burns to take it away?”


	18. George Washington's Tomb

General Washington’s tomb had been built beautifully.  Stonework and masonry holds it together with careful mortar and dedicated craftsmanship.  Martha had encouraged her and Maria to rest. Relax as much as they could.  Eat and bathe, listen to music and give them time to collect the supplies that they’d need.  For the first few hours, Eliza had contented herself with doing just that.  But then she looked outside, and she could just see the tomb in the distance…and she’d needed to go.

Maria asked if she wanted company, and Eliza contemplated it for a long while before eventually saying no.  She confirmed Maria would be fine before leaving, but Martha easily distracted her friend with a few fruits and crackers.  Cheeses that had just finished fermenting.  Mara became engaged in conversation with Martha, and actually participated full sentences.  She’d even abandoned her quest to thank Martha every other word, which did seem to be irritating Martha by hour four.

But Eliza had left Maria at the house, and she’d managed the walk quite well. She stood before the tomb and she looked through the iron bars that kept visitors from crossing too close.  Martha would be entombed with him when she died.

The last time Eliza visited George’s grave, Alexander had been pretending not to be mourning.  She’d spent most of the journey worried for her husband’s fragile mental state, and didn’t truly have a chance to pass along her respects to a man she’d truly cared for.  He’d been a kind and loving mentor.  A brilliant head of state.  The only one in the world that her husband had catered to at the end of all things.

“Hello, sir,” she greets softly.  She reaches her left hand out.  Wraps her hand around one of the iron rails.  The cut on her hand stings slightly, but it doesn’t last.  “I apologize for taking so long to come here…things have not been as easy going as I would have preferred.”

It is, she thinks, the greatest understatement ever uttered this side of the Atlantic Ocean.  And given the great wealth of understatements she’d heard over time, _Congress did not provide the highest quality of social services, Thomas Jefferson was best in small doses, Alexander Hamilton could at times be clever,_ she believes it’s remarkable enough as it is.

Sometimes she wonders how different things would be if Washington had lived just a little longer…if he’d been alive when their son died, if he’d have been able to support Alexander through his grief in a way she’d never been able.  Washington had lost children before.  He’d lost loved ones.  Philip the first had been _their_ first in every joy and pain a parent could imagine.

But it was pointless holding on to the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘if onlys’.  Washington _had_ died, and so he’d been there to welcome their son to the afterlife.  And he’d been there when Alexander joined them far too soon. “I suppose you’ve already seen Alexander,” she muses.

Once, someone told her that Washington would likely have beaten Alexander brutally for the nature of his death, and she’d allowed herself to embrace the image every so often.  She’d allowed herself to smile and dream of Alexander getting the sternest talking to he’d ever received. Of Washington threatening to whip him for his idiocy and Alexander struggling to explain his way out of trouble.

There’s no explaining your way out of death, Eliza knows.  Once it sinks its hooks within you, it doesn’t let go for anything.  There is no escaping it.  There is only acceptance.  And Washington would have been furious about accepting Hamilton’s.  He would have loathed the very nature of Hamilton’s demise, and Eliza hoped that Washington made it count.

That when Alexander came to him in the world after, he would be thoroughly taken to task for all of his failings.  For dueling, for leaving his family destitute, for not being better.  “I hope you forgave him, eventually,” she admits to the wooden door that blocks the tomb itself.  She has no desire to see Washington’s crypt.  No desire to see his bones or flesh.  She wants only to stand here.  Offer her final words of respect.

“I haven’t seen him here,” Eliza tells the tomb.  “And…upon reflection…Maria is right.  Seeing him now would not make me happy.”  A gentle breeze slides in from the east.  Tree leaves flicker and birds chirp happily.  She can hear the sounds of workers in the field.  She can smell whatever the kitchen has cooking. Fresh bread starting to rise.

Her hand falls from the iron bar, and she wraps her arms around her waist.  Feels her bruised ribs press against her arms.  Straightening her back, she stares up a little.  She’d needed to look up to meet Washington’s eyes.  He tried lowering himself for her.  Would duck his head down when they spoke on a personal level.  When he led her into a room, or even when they danced, he would take care to not tower over her.  Tall and intimidating.  He’d always been the most considerate fellows she’d ever met.

He’d been one of the few people in the world Alexander never had a bad word for.  He’d worshipped the ground Washington walked on.  He’d defended his ideals and policies.  He argued for practices in congress he knew Washington would enjoy.  They’d made the greatest of political allies.

“I’ve spent so much of my time thinking of the night he died.”  Wondering if she should have woken up.  If she should have known.  If she _had_ known, if he’d have stopped.  She doesn’t like thinking about that.  She knows he would have gone anyway.  Knows he would have left to defend his honor, and nothing could have stopped him.  No one.  “Even you wouldn’t have been able to keep him from meeting Burr.”

The stonework of the tomb is perfectly plum.  The wood is carefully painted.  There are a few plants growing around the sides.  Each trimmed and tended to perfection.  Washington would have been proud of how well they seemed to be tended.  He’d always been particular about his gardens.  He treasured farming.  Simplicity and quiet living driving him far more than holding the highest office in the land ever had.

The sound of hedges being clipped into submission click clack from elsewhere on the property.  Hyperaware of who was around her.  Who could hear her.  She stares at the tomb, and feels a course of bitterness rise up unfettered.  “I’m _angry,”_ she tells the tomb.  “I’m angry and there’s nothing I can do about that.  My husband is _dead,_ and he left us to manage his affairs on our own.  I’m _angry,_ sir.”

She’s only discussed her feelings with Washington once.  When she’d discovered she’d been pregnant during the war and wrote to Washington to send Alexander home.  He had.  After a fashion.  Alexander had left thinking he’d been kicked from his position in the army, furious and spitting with righteous anger.  He’d stomped into the house, and frozen when he’d seen her.

Emotions, Eliza discovered, were things Washington sometimes managed very well…and sometimes blundered completely.  He reacted as best he could to whatever stimuli he deemed appropriate, and generally his aides or Martha softened the inevitable blow.  Had Washington been standing before her now, she knows he’d be filing away the declaration so he could have words with Alexander.  Put him in his place, believing Eliza never could.

“I’m angry at him, and I don’t have him here with me to yell at.  I don’t have him here to complain to.  I have nothing but a memory.  Not even his ghost deigns to see me.”  She closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath.  “I’m angry.  And I’m tired.”

Exhaustion has been building more and more over time.  It had started out simple.  The feeling of too many hours awake and just needing to rest.  But it’s turned into a bone weariness that warped her perspective so much, she knows that without Phil?  She’d have ceased to get up in the morning.

Yet, no sooner does she start considering her exhaustion does the anger return.  “But more than anything I’m _angry._  He’s a complete _idiot._  For someone so smart and so talented, you’d imagine he’d have thought of something aside from his pride for one moment.  You’d imagine he’d have considered that the world still spins on even after he’s died, and that all I ever wanted form him was to come home at the end of the day.  And he _didn’t._ He didn’t.  He died and he didn’t come back and this is _not_ the way my life was meant to be and— _I’m furious with you Alexander Hamilton._ ”

Her body aches, her feet are sore, her heart is broken.  Their son lays dying in a bed that might be the last bed he ever sees, and she has no notion of where her other children are or how they’re faring.  For all she knows they too have become overwhelmed by this plague.  They too have fallen astray.

“I have worked too hard to see everything you’ve done fall apart, and so I will finish your legacy, Alexander, but I’ll have you know I do so under great protest and I’m going to do it the only way I can.”  She feels foolish.  Arguing with herself in front of Washington’s grave, arguing to Washington’s body as if Alexander could hear.  But it doesn’t stop her.  If nothing else, she’s determined.

“I’m going to punish you the only way I know how,” she vows.  “I’m going to take a _bloody long_ time before dying.  And so are all the children.  We’re going to take our time and you can sit there, _by yourself,_ and wait for us you horrible man.

“So I hope you are satisfied.”  She juts her chin out and she squeezes her arms tighter around her waist.  “I hope it was all worth it.  Philip’s going to survive this and you’re not going to ruin my happiness anymore.  I’m going to be happy.  Will you tell him that for me, sir?”  she asks Washington.  “Will you tell him that?  Because I want him to understand that message clearly.  I’m going to be happy in spite of him, and damn him for making it hurt for so long.”

Eliza waits for several long moments.  The tomb, predictably, stays quiet, but when she finally does turn to walk back to the house,  she feels lighter.  Her feet feel as though they do not ache as much.  Her back no longer sears through her mind in agony.  She imagines the adrenaline will fade soon enough, and the pain will reignite in all its glory.  But for now she feels stronger than she’s felt in quite some time.

She steps back inside, and she finds Martha sitting with Maria in the kitchen.  Susan is awake, and she’s sitting wearily at the table.  Bowl of broth before her.  She’s trying to swallow it down but her movements are jerky.  Slow.  Maria slowly takes the spoon from her daughter’s hand and brings it to her lips for her.

“Did you get what you were hoping to receive?”  Martha asks gently as Eliza sits beside her.

“Yes,” Eliza replies.  She’d said what she’d wanted to say in any case.   “How are things here?” she asks, hoping to distract from her own troubles.

“They’re well enough,” Martha sighs.  Shaking her head she taps her fingers onto the table.  “I’d like you to leave your gelding in our stables if you would.  He’s bound to be weary after your journey, and fresh horses will make all the difference here.  He’ll be well tended to of course, but I’d feel far more comfortable if you took him with you.”

“You’ve already done so much for us…” Eliza hedges.

“And I’ll continue to do to.  I’ve terms, you understand.” Maria glances up at them, lips pressing together thinly, but Eliza is not afraid of such terms.  She already suspects she knows what they’d look like. Eliza nods instead and asks her what Martha expects from them.  “When this is over, I’d very much like for you to spend some time here proper.  The both of you are more than welcome, and your families as well.  I have missed the children.”

Eliza promises easily.  “Yes, of course, they would love that.”

“I’ve heard from Geroges recently, and he and his father have been granted permission to travel, and there’s must pressure for them to come to the Americas for a time.  It’ll be safer for them here in any case, and I know that Gilbert will be most gratified to see you well.”

“And I as well.”

“I’d also like for you to pen a letter to your sister to tell her of your progress.  I’ll send it along for you, but I’d be remiss not to offer you paper and postage to complete the task.”

A letter.   _Damn._ She’d forgotten.  But that too is a simple request she’s more than happy to accomplish.  “And lastly,” Martha tells her.  “These items are on loan.  I expect to see them, and yourselves, in good health the moment it becomes possible for you to return to me.  I will not wait forever, so your timeliness is imperative.”

Eliza stands and strides closer to Martha’s chair.  She wraps her arms around the woman’s shoulders and she holds her close.  “Thank you for all of your assistance,” she whispers.

“You are more than welcome, my dear.  Both of you.  More than welcome.”

Eliza meets Maria’s eyes across the table.  Only a little farther to go. And moving forward?  Eliza was determined not to let anything else hold her back.

***

Setting out again after over a full day’s rest felt strange.  The horses that Martha provided were calm and sturdy.  Their saddles were light weight and easier to lift and manage.  The saddlebags were easily transferrable and packed well.  Martha gave them fresh ointment to smear over their wounds, new bandages and jars of oils for the children.  Phil wakes up long enough to blink up at Martha Washington.  Receive a hug from her and a well wish for his travels.

He doesn’t know who she is.  Likely cannot process the stories that he’s been told with the woman who’s standing in front of him.  He hugs Eliza tightly as she gets onto the horse.  Snuggles against her breast as her feet slip into stirrups and she groans from how comfortable it is compared to walking.

“One more thing,” Martha says before they head out.  She holds out a small pouch for Eliza to take, then gives a matching one to Maria.  Carefully opening it, Eliza looks inside.  Crystals.  “Set them by your fire circle, and the wraiths won’t be able to see you at all.  You should be safe from _them_ at the very least.”

“There are crystals that keep you blind to the wraiths?”  Maria asks, holding her pouch like she’s just been given the answers to the universe.  Eliza doesn’t blame her.  She’s never heard of it either.  But Martha rolls her eyes so forcefully that Eliza cannot help but believe her.

“How do you think Alexander managed to ride through the night during the war?  It certainly wasn’t luck.”  Eliza’s fingers tightened around the bag.

“He wasn’t a superior rider or soldier?”  she questions softly.

Martha shakes her head. “Apologies for breaking the illusion, but Alexander only attempted such rides twice.  His final time, he’d come back nearly collapsing from fright, and the poor horse he’d been on—this was before he received Holly—died of a heart attack the moment after he’d crossed the fire circle.”

“But why haven’t we heard of these?” Maria presses.

“Because they’re gifts.”  It doesn’t explain anything, and Eliza’s prepared to ask for clarification when Martha realizes the problem.  She sighs.  “Magic, crystals, potions and hexes?  They only truly work when freely given.  If a monetary value is placed on it, then there is an exchange of sorts.  And the exchange invalidates the purity of the intent.   _Intent_ is what matters to the undead.  Gifts are what matter.  If you give the right gift, or you hold the right item close—then that is what feeds the power needed.  Those crystals will only work if they’ve been blessed and tended to, and given without any thoughts of greed or avarice.”

Neither Maria nor Eliza know quite what to say to that, and so Martha finishes her explanation with a wry smile.  “You can’t market good intentions, so I fear the crystals fell out of favor for the most part.  But cities such as New York, Philadelphia, even settlements such as Mount Vernon, are all surrounded by buried crystals so no wraiths may enter the property.  Even without a fire.”

“But they still burn around the cities,” Maria replies in confusion.

“It’s to make people feel safe.  Not everyone believes the crystals will work.  After all, if the intent fades, so too does the power.  But you needn’t worry about the intent here.  These are the same crystals I used to give soldiers during the war.  They’ve carried riders through the horrors once before, and they will do so again.”

Eliza feels tears prick against her eyes, but she orders herself to stay calm.  Focused.  She tucks the crystals into her saddlebags, and reaches one hand down to take Martha’s.  “Thank you…for everything.”

“Just return safe to me dear child,” Martha requests.  And when she looks to Maria, she smiles still.  “And it’s been quite my pleasure to meet you Ms. Lewis, I do hope to get to know you better upon your return.  When circumstance are less dire.”

“You as well, my Lady,” Maria replies dutifully.

Stepping back from their horses, Martha gives them one last blessing, “Ride safe, and be well.”

They leave just as the sun starts to pull up over the trees, casting daylight over the world.


	19. Specters

The next few days are marked with a noticeable difference in their journey.  The two horses they’d been given are both strong and sturdy.  They walk with determination and careful steps, and they are dedicated to their tasks of moving forward at any pace possible.  Eliza finds that they’re covering more ground and that the horses are not nearly as weary as they once were.  They mind well, they only need a subtle hand, and their well trained demeanors are flawless company for the journey.

The crystals they’ve been given are also a God-send.  Settlements in the south are farther apart than those in the north.  Sleeping in the night is something that they grudgingly become used to.  They light the fires anyway, set the crystals in the ground, and they wait.  This time the night howlers don’t come close.  They don’t even screech or thrash against the barrier.  If anything, the wood is silent.

Eliza rests with her body leaned comfortably against Maria’s, their children curled along their sides, and they take turns talking to each other and taking watch.  Crystals or no, Eliza cannot help the feelings of anxious energy that wrap around her whenever the night starts to fall.  She cannot stop the sensation of immediate panic that rises when there is _any_ sound in the woods, let along a night howler.

Talking with Maria, and even on one occasion—Susan, had been lovely.  Susan, Eliza finds, is a quick wit and a clever tease.  She’s every bit her mother’s daughter in terms of inner strength and bravery.  Eliza longs for the moment when they reach the end of their quest and the griffons can save her.  Can restore her to her truest form so Eliza can talk to her and truly get to know the young woman that’s hidden beneath the lethargy and violent tremors.

But for now, Eliza takes what she can get.  She runs her fingers through Susan’s hair and tries to calm her as her arms shake and her legs twitch.  “I’ve a daughter just about your age,” Eliza tells Susan softly.  “And a few boys.”

She misses each one terribly.  “There’s Angie…then Alex Junior, then James, then John, William, then Elizabeth…then Philip.”

“S’allo o’ kids…” Susan slurs against Eliza’s knee.

“It is.  They would love to meet you.  Especially Angie.  She’s been desperate for a friend to spend her time with, so many of the girls around us are interested in frivolities.  She wants a true companion.”

“Not…sure I’d do so well…”

“You’d be perfect,” Eliza tells her.  “She’ll love you.” Angie had a heart bigger than anyone Eliza knew.  She loved in ways Eliza only dreamed of the ability to love.  She opened her mind and her soul to others with such wonderful acceptance.  Embracing all of the best parts of her father, and her mother, and displaying them proudly.

A twig snaps, and Eliza turns her head to peer through the trees.  Look to see what it is.  It takes her a moment to spot it, but when she does, she cannot help but gasp.  Her left hand goes to shake Maria up immediately, and the woman wakes with a start.  Jerking forward and squinting into the night.

There’s a faded blue light shimmering not far away.  Human shaped and walking slowly.  It hasn’t noticed them yet, but Eliza recognizes the hue anyway.  She’s seen this before.  When her father had been preparing a legal case involving a murder and had the good fortune to observe a death march as part of his trial.  He’d grudgingly brought her and her siblings with him to show them what a death march was.  They’d all watched with rapt fascination as the ghosts appeared from beyond and reenacted their final moments.

They’d be safe here within the circle, Eliza’s certain.  And unless purposefully interfered with, death marches won’t interfere with the living either.  The ghosts are meant to replay their deaths.  Changes to their schedules are rare.  So this soldier just keeps walking.  Heading through the trees without looking at them.  Without suspecting that there is anyone watching him back.

“Most of the battles were fought in the north,” Maria murmurs. The soldier _is_ dressed as a continental soldier.  The faded colors of his clothes not difficult to see even despite the somewhat bluish hue they’ve been given.

“Not all of them,” Eliza replies.

And battles weren’t necessary to create a death march.  Only a violent death.  A death where whomever it was that had been fighting had not the chance to understand that their time had come to an end.  Had not been given last rights or said their final words.  They became tied to the earth, unable to leave, because their final moments hadn’t been _right._

Every so often Eliza will hear of someone who’s been trained in alleviating the marches.  Farmers and countrymen pay handsomely for their services, complaining that the marches ruin their fields and terrorize their children.  It’s not that much of an exaggeration.  In a major battles, guns will be firing in all directions and the bullets will still have an impact.  Transcending time and space and striking holes in trees that never heal.  Causing divots in the ground that get deeper by the day.   

Eliza’s heard of at least four cases where a death march caused the death of a bystander.  They’d been loitering about hoping to see how the march would continue, taking notes and orating it for a paper or journal.  Then suddenly a stray bullet would cross the field and the innocent would be killed.

During one terrible event, a group of people had gathered to watch a battle be reenacted.  They’d thought it’d be fascinating to watch the British face the continental army and see how it was meant to be fought.  Only the ghosts had become aware of their audience and had soon fired upon them on purpose, believing them to be just as necessary and relevant as the ghosts they were fighting on repeat.

“If you interfere, you become pulled into it,” Eliza recalls.

“Best not to interfere then,” Maria whispers back.

They watch as the soldier walks out of sight, still unaware of their presence and not concerned with where they sat.  Eliza counts seconds in her head.  Listening as the night continues its standard routine.  Eventually, there is a shout of surprise, cut off like the air’s been driven from someone’s lungs.  It echoes through the wood, before falling silent.

Whatever end the soldier had faced, it had come swiftly.

“What happens if they don’t die?” Susan asks quietly, she yawns wide and shivers badly.  Maria drags a light blanket over her shoulders.  Martha had given them more than enough supplies to care for their family in luxury.

“I don’t follow,” Maria admits.

“If you inter…fere…what happens if they don’t die?  You stop ‘em from dying?”

“They become specters…” Maria replies.  “Violent and angry.  They’re aware that they didn’t die when they should have, and they know there’s no way to the other side now.  So they break free of the march and roam the world — attacking or causing trouble wherever they can.  Sort of like wraiths.”

Eliza shivers.  She’s never liked any of the night howlers, and the fact that they go through so many transitions feels so wrong to her.  They have been afforded no peace.  No comfort.  No way to improve or get better.  Their only existence is the constant repeat of the last day of their lives.  Their final moments that are never going to be good enough for anyone or anything.

She thinks back to Rachel.  As a phantom she had slightly more leeway.  Her violence, if there even had been such a thing, had been a choice she made.  Where her humanity stayed largely intact despite her death.  While the marches continued Eliza knew full well soldiers acted the same as they would in life.

Their dialogue may differ if they’ve been interrupted, but they are the exact same as they were before they died.  It’s sad to think about.  She cannot imagine what it must be like to stay the same with no differences for all of eternity, and what it must be like to be entirely unaware of your own circumstance.

No one on a death march knew they were dead, nor that they were fated to die again and again.

Of all the night howlers…Eliza felt the worst for them.

Sighing, she mumbles about needing something to distract _her._  Pulling the _Bestiary_ from its spot, she starts to flip through the pages once more.  By now she’s nearly memorized the entire book.  She’s learned all there is to know about everything.  And yet there’s still no answer as to who the writer in the griffon section is.  There’s still no accounting for the discrepancies that she discovered between the text and the annotation that surround it.

“Martha told me…” Maria starts softly, Eliza turns to look over to her.  “She told me that her daughter had the shaking sickness.”

Its surprising, Martha never talks about Patsy.  That she’d talk to Maria of it must mean she accepted Maria far more than Eliza had thought.  “She did,” Eliza agrees.

“Apparently the General tried to get help from the griffons,” Maria says.  Eliza didn’t know that.  She squeezes her hands around the book and feels discomfort start to settle into place.  “He looked for them for days, and when he finally found them, he did get some talons from them.  He brought them back, but when he stepped back into the house—his daughter was already in the throws of a fit.  She died before he could give them to her.”

It’s a terrible story.  One that Eliza cannot help but relate to on a deeply personal level.  She looks down at Phil and Susan.  Both children struggling as hard as they can to survive.  Both of them at the ends of their rope because of everything neither Maria nor Eliza were willing to leave them behind.  To wait for help to come to them.  Waiting would have taken too long.

Eliza doesn’t want to come home and find her son dead with her hand full of a cure that can save him.  She wants to administer it immediately.  Even if it’s hard.  “They used the talons during the war,” Maria tells Eliza softly.  “When soldiers were dying and loved ones needed aid, they used all their talons then…They didn’t have any left when the General fell ill.  He died because he gave his cure away far too soon.”

“Sometimes that’s how it goes,” Eliza tells her.  “Sometimes there is no happy ending.  Even for the good people of the world.”

“Do you think we’re good people?” Maria asks.

It’s a funny question, one that Eliza’s never contemplated.  Especially not in terms of _them._  “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“Why would the griffons give us their talons?  Their feathers?  Why would they choose us?”

Eliza doesn’t know.  Not really.  She’s been willfully trying to ignore the fact they’re going to need to interact with the griffons at all.  She’s terrified of that meeting.  Certain that it can only end in bloodshed or miracle.  She’s not sure what she’s really looking for in terms of either, but she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that that’s the course of action that will happen.

Either they succeed, or they don’t.

“We’re doing the best we can,” Eliza tells Maria softly.  “We’re trying as hard as we can to save _them._ And if they do not deem us worthy…then I don’t know what we’ll do.  But it’s the only chance we have…it’s the only thing that makes sense at the end of all of this.  I don’t know what we’ll do if they say no.  If we’re turned away.  I suppose…we could always go back to Mount Vernon.”

Martha would take them in.  She’d look at them and she’d see the gouges in their heart.  The defeat along their shoulders.  She’d hold open the door and she’d take them in.  Keep them safe and warm.  Give their children anything they needed to be comfortable in their final moments.  Eliza would write to Angelica and tell her that she failed.

Angelica would write back her condolences.  And they would watch Susan and Phil die.  Perhaps they’d see if Burns could determine anything.  But there would be nothing else they _could_ do.

Eliza presses her lips together.  She doesn’t want to think about that anymore.  Looking back down at her book, she starts scanning the words on he page once more.  Hoping to find something.  Anything that could help give them more insight.  She just needs more information.  That’s it.  A little bit more, and she can figure it all out.  Make sure that there are no hesitations and no confusion.

She’s prepared to pray for it too, and is in the midst of doing just that when Maria’s hand snaps to her arm.  She looks up.  Meets Maria’s eyes.  She’s looking at something over Eliza’s shoulder, and she turns.  There’s a soldier standing on the outside of their fire pit.  He’s looking at them with a curious expression.  One that makes Eliza’s heart start to beat rapidly in her chest.  She licks her lips.  Tries to say something, anything, but she doesn’t know what she’s meant to say.

Unlike the first soldier, this one can see them.  Is looking right at them.  His death march is interrupted and they’re in his way.  Eliza wonders if the crystals can protect them from a true and proper ghost, not a wraith ready to tear them apart.

Her suspicions are invalidated as the ghost steps forward.  Crossing over the fire line as if it were _meaningless_.  Eliza’s heart hammers about in her chest.  She scrambles to her feet.  Standing in front of Maria and the children.  Terror whipping about her.  She has no idea what to say to the soldier, no idea what to do.

He doesn’t seem to mind either way.  Just looks them up and down with the most unusual expression on his face.  As if he cannot quite fathom that they’re here either.  “Good morning, mi’ladies,” he greets. Entirely unaware of the time or place.  Locked in his mindset of how life should be.  Eliza feels her stomach sink.  The sweet southern drawl pulls around the soldier’s tone as he asks, “What are you doing out here?”  and Eliza has no idea what to say.


	20. John Laurens

The soldier's a boy, really.  Though they all are.  This one is young and tan from so long in the sun.  Freckles smatter across his face.  His dark hair curls wildly beneath his cap.  The mark on his arm claims him as a Lieutenant Colonel.  He smiles at Eliza and Maria brightly.  Holds out his hand and greets them with proper courtesy.

"I apologize for disturbing you, mi'ladies, but whatever  _ are  _ you doing out like this? The red coats aren't far."  Eliza fixates on the accent.  It’s unsurprising considering their current location.  But there's a twinge to it’s obviously southern nature.  A slight British lilt that implies time spent overseas.

Maria has an arm around Susan's body.  A hand on Philip's shoulder.  Eliza's closest to the soldier.  So close that if she ignores his hand any longer it will seem rude.  Already she's pushing the bounds of social convention by not taking it.  With trembling fingers, she reaches out.  Carefully cups his palm and hers.

He's not as cold as she'd thought he'd be.  Skin just as warm as any normal man's skin.  Though it gives off a faint glow of the undead.  She's grateful he's not bleeding in any case.  The morbidity of such a sight may have made this interaction far less cordial.  Still, she releases his hand as quickly as it becomes appropriate to do so.  He doesn't seem offended.

If anything, he merely smiles more and peers around her to look at Maria and the children.  "We're travelling," Eliza explains slowly.  Carefully.  Swallowing back her tension as she tries to find the least confrontational words in her arsenal.  She's not sure what a ghost would find unpleasant.  Not sure what could send one into a rage.  But the soldier seems to be cordial enough for now.  "Didn't make it to the inn in time, I'm afraid."

The soldier tilts his head a little, then glances over his shoulder.  Eliza follows his gaze, and her breath freezes in her chest.  More soldiers.  Slowly walking through the trees.  Hesitating on the edge of their encampment.  Watching them close.  The Colonel turns back toward her, frowning a little.  "You need not be afraid, my lady, we're not savages.  We'll not harm you or your babe." Eliza forces the skin around her lips to lift.  Crinkles her eyes.  Says 'thank you.' The expression makes him laugh.  "Oh, don't be like that.  I swear on our honor.  We've never harmed a lady and we likely never will.  The General would hang us all from the poplars if we did."

"That'd be quite a feat," Eliza says.  "They're not known for their branches." She makes the soldier laugh again.  A great boisterous sound.  Musical almost.  Enchanting.  She hears Maria hissing her name, and Eliza shakes her head.  Blinks to try to keep focused.

The man is dead.  And friendly or not,  _ well-meaning  _ or not, he and his men are a danger to them all.  "Please, my ladies, we'd be serving without honor if we don't assist you tonight.  Is there anyplace we can take you? I'd rather not leave you here to the wraiths."

"We'll be fine," Maria tells him shortly.  "We need not your assistance." The Colonel's face actually flickers in and out of focus.  There and gone in a flash.  He frowns.  Unhappy and discontented.

"Only, you're so busy as it is.  And your duties are far more important than caretaking us," Eliza hastens to explain.  His expression doesn't lift in the slightest.  If anything, it becomes suspicious.

"What were your names, again?" he asks them carefully.   _ Spies!  _ Eliza's heart jolts as realization strikes.  He believes them to be spies.  Women and children lost in the woods would never turn down such guard.  Would be thankful for their presence, not wary of their existence and offer for help.  And the Colonel is a true soldier.  Not a rascal in a blue coat.

With his shiny buttons and well maintained boots, his posture and hand on his hip, he's clearly a man of great stature.  Well bred and loyal to his command.  The soldiers that surround him, walking closer and closer with each passing second, continue to look to him for leadership.  For guidance.  "A gentleman would do well to introduce himself first," Eliza bargains.  She tries to recall every soldier Alexander had mentioned.  But faces and names blur.  Too many died during the war and the only man she can think of is—

"John Laurens, my lady.  And you?"

_ "John Laurens?"  _ she asks.  All caution flying to the wind.  She reaches for him.  Takes his hand in hers once more.  Clutching it tight.  He startles.  Eyes wide and mouth opening in protest.  He doesn't  _ quite  _ step back from her, but it's a near thing.  She can hardly care.  " _ You _ are  _ John Laurens?"  _ Maria calls her name once more.  Eliza can hear her starting to stand.  Nervously telling her not to approach.  Not to become more familiar with their ethereal guests, but Eliza cannot hope to do that.

She soaks in the image of John's face.  His eyes, his nose.  His cheeks.  He's handsome.  Handsome and boyish, and oh! They were this young once.  She and Alexander were this young at some point or another.  Young and dashing, the soldier and his lady.  And she can see the image so clearly now.  Alexander and John in their blue coats serving side by side.  Grinning and teasing.

She can see the qualities that Alexander had told her about in the days just after John's death.  Alexander loved John all his life.  Had hesitated on naming their son 'John' for far too long.  Worried the name would mean something different to him than it did to her.  But Eliza cared not to whom Alexander wished to honor.  John Church or John Laurens.  Both deserved praise for being their friends.

"I—I am madam, though I know not why you—"

"Eliza.  I'm Eliza Hamilton!"

" _ Eliza!" _ Maria all but shrieks.  She needn't be worried, though.  John's pensivity vanishes in a moment.  His eyes widen and his hand twists in hers.  They hold each other now, and his smile grows fond and enthusiastic.

John exists in letters and memories.  In laughing words Eliza received as she waited on news from the front.   _ My dear Laurens is off to the Carolinas to achieve his dream of a black army.  How I lament his departure, though I know he's much pleased.  Forgive me, my Betsey, but I fear I shall never see my Laurens again.   _ Alexander had been right, of course.  John had died here.  In this very spot.

A wave of apprehension finally cuts through her elation at meeting a man she'd always wished to know.  John's only here because this is where he dies.  A young boy leading his men.  In the middle of the woods late at night.  He's twenty-seven years old, and he will never know tomorrow.  Will only know this night.  Over and over again.  For all time.

Tears prick in Eliza's eyes as she beholds him.  As she looks him up and down.  He's doing much the same.  Squinting at her face and inspecting her clothes.  "I had known Alexander married a lady," John tells her delicately.  "But I must confess, he did not impress how tragically _beautiful_ his lady was."

Eliza feels her cheeks turn dark.  She laughs.  Reminded suddenly of the letters she received and the pages of flattery Alexander steeped within them.  She shakes her head at John, catches the twinkle in his eye.  "And yet you, Lieutenant Colonel, are precisely the scoundrel he described." Another man may have taken offense, but John laughs heartily.  Throwing his body into the gesture.  Delight ringing through the trees.

His mind catches up with him, and he releases Eliza's hand.  Hurries toward Philip and crouches down.  "Is this...?" he asks Eliza.  Eyes wide.  Maria is still clutching Phil close.  Terrified of John's mere presence.  But Eliza cannot bring herself to be afraid.  Not now.  Not with it being John.

_ I wish he could have known our children,  _ Alexander had whispered to her once.  Quietly.  As they stood side by side in their children's room.

"Yes," she tells John softly.  "Yes, this is Phil." John's face is alight with wonder.  He leans down over Phil and smiles at the boy.  Lifts a hand to touch.  And  _ immediately  _ gets slapped for it.

Maria smacks her hand against John's fingertips, and he recoils like a scolded dog.  Startled and offended.  His nose scrunches and Eliza  _ feels  _ the temperature of the wood start to drop low.  The hazy blue of the ghostly army becoming brighter.  "Maria..." Eliza shakes her head.  Holds out her hands and slowly approaches.

John's glaring at Maria.  Anger flashing over his face.  "He's sick," Maria excuses shortly.  Rudely.  "We wouldn't want you or your men to...become afflicted."

If she thought the words would calm John, she was mistaken.  If anything, he turns his back to her completely.  Looks to Eliza for her permission.  It's like seeing Alexander again.  As he used to be.  Fiery and vibrant.  Emotions in all directions. _ They brought out the worst of each other,  _ Lafayette had told her once.  On the few times they'd discussed John.   _ But...also the best.   _ It's an affirmation she'd never received.

John's a child, though.  A child who just wanted to meet his friend's son.  Who means them no harm.  Still...

Walking past him, Eliza kneels down.  Lifts Phil and presents him to John.  She doesn't allow him to hold her child, but she does bring him close.  Lets John lean in and inspect his face.  The tension fades as John becomes satisfied.  "He's a beautiful child," John tells her kindly.

"Thank you." She means it.  From the bottom of her heart.  Some great sadness, regret perhaps, that she'd not even known she'd carried seems to be lifted from her shoulders.   _ You see Alexander,  _ she thinks.  Smiling at John's ghostly visage.   _ He would have loved them all. _

"You said he was ill?" he asks.  He doesn't look toward Maria though.  Dismissing her entirely from his attention.  Priorities completely shifted.  He's a bit petty, Eliza realizes.  Not keen on playing pretend or acting nice.

"Yes, a sickness that's nigh incurable.  We're looking for the griffons.  In hopes that they could help."

Some of the soldiers who are watching start to talk amongst themselves.  "The griffons live over in the Long Lakes," John replies swiftly.

"You know about them?" Maria asks.  She's just as startled as Eliza is.  It’s been years since John’s death, and yet he seems confident in his answer.  Doesn’t even appear to doubt the griffons could help, even though most everyone else they’ve met has argued against going.

John fixes Maria with an annoyed look.  One Eliza truly wishes he'd keep to himself.  But she just scowls right back at him.  "Yes," he replies shortly.  "I know them.  The lakes were part of my father's property.  I saw them often when I was a child, used to collect their feathers for talismans."

A memory drags itself to the surface.  Carefully sloping letters along the side of the  _ Bestiary.   _ Remarking on size and mating patterns.  The drawing slid in-between pages that had been so detailed and glorious.  " _ You're  _ the one who wrote the notes in Alexander's book!" Eliza exclaims.  

It's John's turn to flush, and he smiles sheepishly at her.  Tucking his head as if he'd been caught filching sweets.  Eliza cared not for his uncertainty.  She bends to the ground once more passing Philip back to Maria so she can fetch the book by their bags.  Holding it up, she reveals it to John.  Fascinated as John turns to the precise page on his first try, and looks down at the carefully annotated remarks.

"I'm surprised he's kept this," John tells her softly.  Running his hands over the pages.  He looks immeasurably fond of her husband.  "Has it been of use to you?" he asks next.

"With all this travel, I admit the  _ Bestiary  _ lacks on the night lurkers more than we'd prefer," Eliza responds.  John's eyes truly do shine.  Glimmer delightfully when he's amused.  Eliza wishes she had known him in life.  Known whether the glimmer had been there as well.  A little sparkle to his overwhelmingly boisterous demeanor.  His quickfire interactions and charm.

Or is the glimmer new? Merely a strange cast off from his death glow.  Still clinging to his body.  Refusing to let him go.  "Then my dear Mrs.  Hamilton, you must truly permit me the honor of escorting you to the Long Lakes."

Eliza suppresses the desire to wilt.  He cannot travel with them to the Long Lakes...he won't even be able to leave this wood.  John's going to die tonight.  Just as he died the night before.  And the night before.  And every night previously until the day he truly had lost his life.  He's reliving steps.  Re-pacing his memories.  Traveling a death march that will never be broken.

They can't break his death march.  For if he leaves without dying tonight, he'll be a specter.  Lost and violent.  Crazed by the knowledge he's been barred a peaceful rest.  Destructive and dangerous.

"No," Maria answers for her.  John scowls and glares at her, but she glares right back.  "No, we'll not travel with you."

"And just  _ what  _ can it be that drives you so keenly forward unprotected and alone?" His eyes flick down to Susan.  "Who are you, again?" He leaves off the honorific this time, apparently more than willing to act like the child he is.

Eliza grimaces as Maria's eyes narrow.  She does not like being pushed.  Doesn't like being talked down to.  And the incredibly wealthy John Laurens has few traits that Maria inherently appreciates about humanity.  Frozen in time as a spoilt child, a Colonel in Washington's army, John's arrogance and personal station is clearly off putting to Maria.

Or, more practically, Maria hates that they're once more consorting with the dead.

Their last few encounters had ended by luck alone, and luck will not always carry them through.  (Though Eliza won't complain if it does).  "Maria," Eliza's friend replies.  Without a last name to go by, she's opening up herself for an attack.  And Eliza sees her brace for it.  It shouldn't be necessary...Alexander long stated John had been his closest friend.  Despite his station, if John cared not for Alexander's credentials, he'd not care for Maria's.

Unsurprisingly, John has the good sense to not press for details.  Instead of going for the kill, John twists his tone.  Sickly sweet and imploratory.   _ Don't you worry your little head, miss,  _ underwritten beneath each and every word.  "I'm not sure if you've  _ noticed _ , Miss.  Maria, but the country is at war.  Anyone could happen upon you."

Maria, equally incapable of backing down, mimics his southern drawl flawlessly.  "I don't know if  _ you've  _ noticed, Lieutenant Colonel, but we've travelled from New York to South Carolina without your help.  We certainly don't need it now."

As it turns out, the practicality of their situation  _ had  _ gone over John's head.  He immediately looked at Eliza in horror.  "You've truly been alone all this time? You're a Schuyler! Surely you must have some form of escort?" Eliza catches Maria's grimace, but it's truly too late.  Any chance they had in convincing John to letting them go sans-chaperone is dashed.  He wasn't raised like that.  And Washington certainly wouldn't have held him in such esteem if he wasn't at least  _ sometimes  _ capable of good manners.

Attempting to mollify his fear, Eliza can only "There's quite a lot happening at this time,"

"It must be  _ quite a lot  _ indeed if your husband did not take this journey himself.  A letter could have been posted to me and I would have fetched your needs for you had I known." He speaks with such earnest enthusiasm that Eliza can only nod her head.  Struggling to recall what she knows of the man in an attempt to set his mind at ease.

"There wasn't enough time, good sir.  The children only fell ill two weeks ago.  By the time you received the missive, we feared it would be too late."

Eyes wide with wonder, John looks back at Philip.  "Does Alexander not know you are traveling, my lady?" he asks.  Falling back on conventions even as his imagination is taken hold.

"I fear not," she admits.  It's as close as the truth as she can make it.  If Alexander  _ does  _ know what's been occurring, he's certainly made no effort to commune with them.  No effort to appear and assist.  His ghost has crossed over, and he is heedless to her prayers.

"Then it is my sworn duty to serve you Mrs.  Hamilton.  Alexander would not permit me to act otherwise.  I'd lose my honor, if not my friend, should I allow you on your own."

"We cannot keep you from your war, Colonel," Eliza tells him slowly.  Struggling to buy time.

"Nonsense, the war is almost over as it is," John tells her.  "We won at Yorktown did we not?" He's grinning madly, and Eliza cannot tell if he's teasing or if he truly believes that theirs is the correct path.  She lets her eyes slide back to his soldiers.  All waiting at attention.  Prepared to follow whatever course of action John set forth.

_ Reckless,  _ Washington had said of John.  He'd had no ill words to say about the man, finding him to be of fine upstanding moral character.  But he was  _ reckless _ to the point of distraction.

She raises a brow at him.  Adopts an expression she uses most frequently with William after he's decided on a new scheme to take part in.  "You just want to fight a griffon don't you?" she asks him.  If possible, his grin becomes even more radiant— _ resplendent  _ with delight.

"Oh yes, you are the perfect match for Alexander, I am so pleased." Closing the  _ Bestiary, _ he waves his hand toward their horses.  "Well if there are no more complaints," he squints at Maria, "Then come along! If we leave now we can reach the edge of the wood by sundown.  There's a clearing just on the other side that's very defensible.  A good crick for water as well." No need to tell him it was already the dead of night.  That they'd set up camp and had little notion of whether he'd be leading them in the right direction or not.

He truly believed that he was helping them, but when Eliza glances toward Maria, it's clear where Maria stands on this matter.  Joining these men on their death march would only lead them to one outcome— _ violence.   _ If, by some strange stroke of luck, their presence interrupted the death march and the soldiers who kill John do not appear as they should, then John and all his men would shift and transform.

"Colonel, I really must protest," she tries.  "And a griffon fight? Truly?"

"One doesn't  _ fight  _ with griffons," John tells her.  Lowering his voice as if telling a secret.  "One merely bids them hello." He waves for his soldiers to help break down their camp, and they do so quickly.  Their horses shift uncomfortably, one of them huffing madly and snorting as John approaches.  Looking at all the ghosts with something akin to terror.  John frowns at the mare, before holding his hand out to touch her.  "You tragic beast, what are you so upset about?" He pats the mare's neck and she twists about to snort loudly in his face.

He is entirely unafraid.  It's like watching a man walk drunk towards a cliff.  He's fearless and completely foolish. Perfectly willing to lead himself to danger.  The mare brays loudly, and John takes her by the reins.  Gives her a mighty tug and tells her to behave.  Ears thrust forward, the mare snorts at him suspiciously.  Clearly not trusting him at all.

"You daft beastie, what's the matter with you, hmm?" John asks her anyway.  Still stroking her fur as one would to any fond animal. Impervious her behavior. "I do hope that she behaves better for you Mrs.  Hamilton, or I'll need to have words with Alexander for allowing you to ride such a tempestuous creature."

"She's a dear," Eliza replies nervously.  "She never troubles me any."

Mollified by her response, John assists his men in getting them ready to go.  He offers them help up onto their horses, and then calls for his own to be brought forth.  For a moment, Eliza's certain that he's mistaken.  As of yet, she's not seen an  _ animal's  _ ghost.  But sure enough, a great stallion trots forward.

Both of Martha's horses reacts immediately.  Stamping their feet and swishing their tails.  But John's stallion doesn't pay them any mind.  Just stands still and waits for his rider to clamber up on top.

"He's beautiful," Eliza tells John softly.  John pats the horse's neck proudly.

"Bravest horse in the army...next to Holly of course," he adds with a wink.

Soldiers falling into line behind them, John proudly rides ahead.  Turning to smile over his shoulder.  "This way Mrs.  Hamilton, you and little Phil will be all right soon." He is far less pleasant to Maria.  "And...you as well...miss." With a gentle kick of his heels, he urges his horse on, and they join John’s march.


	21. Growing Up

Maria glares at the back of John's head.  He's perfectly oblivious to it.  Or rather, he's confident enough in himself and his abilities to completely ignore her fury.  Any exhaustion the day might have brought has been replaced by the endless unease and tension of the moment.  They've joined a death march.  And neither had any idea how long it would take.

John leads them forward with perfect sincerity and surety.  He hums idly to himself, occasionally looks back and chatters to one of his men or to Eliza.  He's...sweet.  Sweet and kind, and just as reckless and impetuous as everyone always said.  

John Laurens was everything that Eliza thought he'd be.  He's young and charming.  Teasing and light hearted.  Even in the midst of a war he seems to carry with him an almost preternatural enthusiasm that she cannot quite understand.  He's a handsome boy.  She can see why Alexander had been so attracted to the man.  She's finding it startlingly difficult to take her eyes off him.

Though if she were being honest with herself, she would say that, like Alexander, John's very good at playing pretend.  His smiles are perhaps too forced.  His jokes, outdated and clearly rehearsed.  He plays the game well.  A nobleman and his men.  But Eliza recognizes the pauses.  She understands the hesitation.  She's seen all this before.

John tells them a story about a battle they'd won.  He sings his men praises and relishes in their victories.  But he neglects the aftermath.  He leaves his report barren of casualties and nightmares.  Perhaps she's spent too much time pretending not to see her husband's pain after the war.  Perhaps she's merely grown old.

But in the end, Eliza is entirely uninterested in John's games.

"You  _ may _ speak freely Colonel," she tells the boy.  It's a futile effort.  John doesn't know her well enough to  _ not _ play pretend.  He keeps his smile fixed.  He does not touch the scar she knows used to bother him.  Does not adjust his hat or his coat against the chill that grips his men.

There's no trace of the anger Alex used to curse about late at night when he'd drunk too much.  Despairing the loss of his friend.   _ "Never have I met a man so determined to change his lot in life, Betsey.  Seems he'd have gladly traded all his tomorrows just for one more yesterday.  He'll never be satisfied..." _

John ignores her gentle rebuke and launches into a tale Eliza's already heard before.  It's different from John's point of view, but it still carries the childish teasing that she's long since grown out of.

The realization is startling, to be sure.  It feels like only yesterday that Alexander wooed her with the same blue coat, same boisterous nature, and same fearless appetite for adventure.  She sat at her husband’s arm, listening with bated breath as he wove tales into the night.  And...she grew up.

John's stories are old.  They are filled with reckless bravery that hinges on the precipice of stupidity.  He gloats about leading his men into battle, and Eliza's  _ tired.   _ She's tired of the flirtations and the teasing.  She's tired of the lack of forward thinking.  Tired of John's puppy-like quest for attention.  Barking  _ Play with me! _ Even as he seeks validation and praise in equal measure.   _ Tell me I did good! _

Eliza likes John.  She truly does.  But, she wishes she could have seen John grow up.  Frozen in time as a gregarious twenty-seven year old, John's lost out on the chance to be more than a soldier.  More than the angry son of Henry Laurens.  She wonders what  _ that _ man would have been.  She wonders if she would have liked him then too.  Or if the war would have turned him bitter and cold.  If the friendship Alexander had treasured would have turned empty and meaningless.

John's the foolish child who decided to shoot a superior officer in the middle of a war while Alexander cheered him on.  Eliza finds it difficult to imagine John sitting idly by as Alexander worked himself into an early grave in congress.  He's far too brash for state life.  "What are your plans after the war?"  Eliza asks John after he tells her about the army he wished his father would let him build. 

He cannot understand why the south refuses to free their slaves.  Why they will not grant him the opportunity to use good men who will fight for this country if it means freedom for  _ everyone.  _  The innocence is so young and foolhardy, Eliza had never understood where it came from.  Especially from a southern boy.  Especially from someone of  _ his  _ stature.  His father had more wealth than some colonies.  He led the country during the war.  John's as close to a prince America has ever had, and yet...he rebels.

He always rebelled.

"I think I'll go home and free all my father's slaves and give them my inheritance,"  John tells her.  He's got a wink in his eye, but a deadly serious set to his jaw.  Anger sparking quick as a whip within his countenance. 

"That's...quite the proclamation," Eliza hedges.  John laughs.  Defaulting to laughter when she suspects he means something more painful than that.  He's used to not being listened to, Eliza realizes.  Used to his ideas being laughed or mocked.  Thought of as inappropriate or incorrect.

He's a rich southern boy, an heir to an empire, and he wants to give it all away.  Wants to be done with all of it and never see any of it again.  Alexander had lamented his friend's foolishness even as he complained to Eliza on how John's father chided John endlessly.  On one hand Alexander had loathed how Henry treated John.  Had written Eliza letters lamenting how no matter how many letters for aid John had sent, Henry had refused support time and again.  On the other...he'd privately disclosed that while John had noble beliefs the practicality of such beliefs were negligible at best.

"I'm teasing, of course," John excuses with endless grace.  "It's the reputation you see.  Everyone quite assumes that I fully intend to squander each opportunity that comes along."   _ Unlike some others he knows. _  Eliza wonders who John's quoting.  Whose voice runs circles round his head. 

She wishes they had more  _ time.   _ She's listened to stories of John Laurens for twenty years, and now that she's here she wants to use all the context she knows and truly  _ know  _ the man before her.  Everything she says is not good enough.  Can never be.  Pithy lines don't form friendships, and what good would befriending John be anyway?  He's going to die again tonight, and she's going to move on.  They will never see each other again, and he will forget that she was even here. 

She tells him, "There's nothing strange about wanting to build something for yourself, Colonel."  And watches as the skin tightens around his eyes.  As his head tilts a little to the left. 

"Is that what you see it as?" he asks her. 

"You're a remarkably talented man," she reminds him.  "If there is anyone who could make something of themselves from nothing?  I imagine you would do well...and you've no shortage of allies who would help you with your goal."

The boyish imp has a smile that's infectious.  Charming and light.  "Would that I could have met you before Alexander, perhaps there'd be a different story to tell," he teases her.  She rolls her eyes. 

"I'm far too old for you," she tells him, and it sets John off again.  He's laughing bright and loud, and Eliza's heart clenches at the sound.  It echoes through the trees, and she wonders how far out the bullets are that will kill him.  How long they have until she and Maria and the children  _ need  _ to leave his presence lest they be killed at his side.

"If you're too old for  _ me,  _ Lady Hamilton, then you're  _ far  _ too old for Alexander."

"I truly hadn't noticed," she replies.  Curiously, John hasn't noticed that she  _ is  _ too old for the Alexander he knows.  Hasn't picked up on the fact that she's twice his age, her son is too grown to make up for the differences that John's aware of.  Why he's not curious or surprised, she doesn't know.  But he seems to have accepted everything as fact.  Cheerily walking forward with little to no signs of trouble.

John settles after a moment, sobering as he shakes his head.  "I've a daughter, you know?"  She did.  Alexander had ruminated over whether or not to send Frances Laurens any of her father's letters after his death.  In the end, greed had won out.  Alexander hadn't wanted to part with a single letter, and he'd kept them closeted away.  Far out of sight.  Never to be talked about.  "She and her mother are in Europe...after the war I'll send for them.  Set up a home here...perhaps in New York?"

It's a shy suggestion.  He looks at her from under his lashes, and she tells him it sounds like a fine idea.  He flushes a little and bites his lip.  "I've never met my daughter..." the confession comes almost unbidden.  He doesn't even seem to know why he says it.  He's made awkward by the words.  Off kilter and uncomfortable.  Eliza doesn't know how to comfort him. 

"Alexander's never truly known his son," she replies.  John's eyes flick from her face to Philip's.  He doesn't say anything more, but he stares at Philip's sleeping face for several long seconds.  As if plotting it to memory.  "He...he left not long after Phil was born," Eliza continues. "Off to fight a battle I wonder why he fought." 

"For liberty, mi'lady," John replies softly.  Though some of his passion has lessened.  It's the tail end of the war now.  After years of fighting, after wintering in horrid conditions, after starvation and loss of friends and comrades at all sides, John's words are rote.  He's brilliant at pretending, but at the end of the day, it's still an act. 

In any case, Eliza's not talking about the war. 

Maria guides her horse closer to Eliza's, and she can feel her friend's displeasure the longer they sit in such close company with these men.  “We shouldn’t be here,” Maria hisses to her.  Just soft enough that perhaps John might not hear, but no.  He heard anyway.  He glares at Maria. 

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met before,” he growls out.

“You wouldn’t know me,” she replies shortly.  Eliza wishes she could find the interaction humerous.  Alexander’s best friend and his mistress meeting for the first time.  But she feels oddly caught in the middle.  Wanting desperately to cherish these few moments he has with John, while at the same time not wanting to alienate Maria. 

Maria is  _ right,  _ of course.  There is nothing at all that is safe or good about them marching with John’s men.  It’s dangerous to be here, and it’s dangerous to continue talking.  Every step that they take in the opposite direction of where John’s meant to die, is another chance that he could become a specter.  And this close to him?  They wouldn’t be able to escape. 

Unfortunately, John’s not likely to be swayed by their continued requests for departure.  He’s already looking at Maria suspiciously, and if at any point he doubts their tale, he’d be well within his rights to halt their movement entirely.  Place them in custody rather than allow them access to their horses and supplies.  Even if the custody would end once the sun rose, they’d have nowhere to go and no ability to escape once the killing starts. 

For now, at least they’ve been allowed their horses.  “You wrote the notes in Alexander’s book?” Eliza asks before John can come up with a new way to irritate Maria.  He allows himself to become distracted by the question. 

Though he does give her a look that shows he’s fully  _ aware  _ he’s being distracted, he answers her anyway.  “I did.  After he’d been foolish enough to ride into a nest.”  She had suspected as much.  Particularly since the notes had been rather pointed at times.  He’d not been happy with Alexander’s recklessness at the very least. 

“Your notes are incredibly detailed…” it’s an invitation to say more on the topic, and for the first time all night— John actually appears somewhat embarrassed.  He keeps his eyes in front of him, watching their road as he decides what to say. 

“I...I used to live by the Long Lakes,” he explains sheepishly.  He’d said as much earlier, but this time he continues.  Words going softer and softer until Eliza needs to strain to hear them. “I’d go for walks in the woods, and from time to time would see them flying.  They don’t mind children.  In fact, I rather think they  _ liked  _ having me there.  I used to take leaves of parchment up with me and try to sketch them.  I was quite bad at it.” 

“The drawings in the book are quite  _ good _ , you’ve truly captured them well!”  He’d been systematic in his etchings.  Each shape and figure had been proportional and carefully managed.  He’d even added shading around the joints and the feathers to provide a more clear picture.  Everything from the talons to the feathers to the beak had been drawn with flawless precision

Yet his cheeks remain flushed and he doesn’t acknowledge the compliment.  “Griffons...they’ve earned a reputation for being very difficult to work with and manage.  Perhaps because most who encounter them fear that they are mindless beasts.  Their very place in the  _ Bestiary  _ is still something I’m uncertain about...they’re not quite the mindless creatures that you might believe them to be.”

“And you know this for a fact?” Maria asks.  John’s spine straightens and Eliza can see his jaw working tightly as he attempts to restrain his temper.  Eliza glares at her friend.  But Maria is undaunted.  She continues to watch John as though at any moment he’ll split apart and turn into a wraith.  As if he’s going to slaughter them all here and now and be done with it. 

Air hisses from between John’s teeth as he fights to keep himself calm and collected.  “I do,” he grinds out.  “I do know it for a fact.  They  _ speak _ for one.  Name me one other beast that can  _ speak. _ ” 

Eliza can’t.  And it almost seems unbelievable to hear him say it.  As though he’s weaving a fantasy for them, just tolerating them until he does eventually set them in irons.  The story is whimsical.  A child’s tale.  She can see how it was created too.  If John truly had spent his days playing near the griffons, it’s easy to imagine that he’d conjured voices for them in his head.  He’d been young after all.  Young and lonely. 

Regrettably...tact has never been one of Maria’s strong points.  She scoffs loudly and without fear, and John finally stops his horse as he listens to her mock him.  His hands are tight around the reins and he’s flickering in and out of focus.  The wind picks up, and Eliza hurriedly reaches an arm out and touches him.  He startles, becoming rigidly solid beneath her touch as she breathlessly tries to reclaim some control over the situation.  “What do griffons talk about?” she asks. 

“Anything?” John replies.  He stares at her hand on his arm as if it’s going to tear his throat out.  She releases him, but stays close.  Stays as close as she can in case she needs to steady him again.  She spares only one final look to Maria and pointedly mouths for her to  _ stop.  _  Maria nods curtly and looks away.  She’s furious, but at least  _ her  _ fury Eliza’s certain they can withstand.  John’s...is still an unknown. 

“I used to tell them about home, and they would tell me about their homes.  About their society.  It’s how I know so much about them—they told me, and I listened.” 

“You must have been a very brave child,” Eliza praises.  She has no idea what she would have done to one of her children if she discovered they spent their days with beasts.  Likely enforce house arrest on both of them.  That Henry had allowed the behavior to continue shows remarkable leniency on his part.  Then again… “You travelled abroad for your schooling didn’t you?” 

John nods.  “I left when I was ten…” Perhaps Henry had discovered John’s habit after all.  And he had not been pleased.  “But I have seen them recently.  I saw them before I left for the war.  They were just there four years previously, and they don’t tend to roam during this time of year.”

Some of John’s soldiers have started to clump together a bit more.  They talk amongst themselves in an easy chatter that drifts from cluster to cluster.  They’re all so  _ young.  _  The oldest of them must be in his thirties, perhaps?  But John is still clearly their leader and they obviously respect him and his judgement.  Eliza used to think that twenty-seven was plenty old enough for everything she wanted to see and do in life.  But looking at John now, she wonders if he’s even aware of how much more he could have offered the world. 

“You asked what I would like to do when the war is over,” John murmurs quietly.  Eliza nods.  “I’m a lawyer by trade, or at least that’s what I’ve studied in school.  I don’t much care for it.  Never found it as interesting as your husband.  But...Gil—I mean,  _ le Marquis de Lafayette,  _ and I have discussed a new bestiary.  Perhaps one that is more...informative?  More accessible to the public?” He pauses.  “I’d like to bring Frances to see the griffons one day too...I know it’s a foolish thought.  Idle dreaming...My father would never app—”

“—That sounds  _ lovely,  _ John,” Eliza tells him.  She reaches out again, and places her hand on his arm.  This time, it’s not to restrain or keep into existence.  He looks at her like he’s never seen a woman in his life, eyes wide and still a touch startled.  Uncertainty and nervousness shining through even despite his generally aggressive and passionate nature.  “I’d be honored to read it one day,” she tells him.  She’s sorry that she never got the chance. 

John’s brows furrow.  His expression is undefinable.  He squints at Eliza and he does not seem to know what to make of what he sees.  “You’re not laughing.” 

“Was it meant to be a joke?”  

He doesn’t shrug.  He doesn’t have the time.  A shout echoes in the woods and his head snaps about to listen.  His soldiers have come to a halt.  Each of them holding their guns at the ready.  John’s arm pulls from Eliza’s grip, and his fingers trail down to the hilt of his sword.  He continues to scan the horizon.  “Is there a problem?” Eliza asks, though her heart starts beating faster. 

Adrenaline pumps through her body.  She can feel the roots of her hair prickling as her ears turn outwards.  Desperate to hear  _ something.  _

_ Anything.  _

A bullet cuts through the night and John’s horse rears.  He handles it expertly, not flinching in the slightest as he forces his stallion back down.  There on the horizon is a lone british soldier...and as they stand there he multiplies.  A small contingent is facing them.  All flickering blue. 

Eliza meets Maria’s eyes.

The final moments of John’s death march has started.


	22. The Death March

Bullets fly in all directions.  Eliza screams as a soldier falls not far away. John grits his teeth and pulls his horse around, facing his enemy with steely eyed determination. “Go,” he orders Eliza and Maria.  He pulls his sword from its sheath and holds it firmly in hand.  Reins in his left, he licks his lips and nods his head toward the treeline.  “Go, and do not stop running.  Not for  _ anything.” _

Despite her recalcitrant behavior prior, Maria kicks her horse into action and does exactly he he commands.  She races headlong toward the woods, but Eliza lingers.  She hesitates.  She watches, breathless as John shouts for his men to form lines.  The teasing boy she had always longed to meet now rallies his troops with single minded focus.  He screams for his soldiers to prepare for the fight, stopping only to tuck as a new volley lobs toward them.

It’s different now than in reality.  Eliza knows that twenty years ago John had led this fight.  Had  _ started  _ it, even.  He’d ordered his troops to attack the British, and he’d lost.  Lost badly as they counterattacked and slaughtered each member of John’s party.  But his death march has been interrupted, and the events are perverted.  Now the British are chasing them, brandishing their weapons and preparing for the slaughter.

“Eliza!” Maria screams.  Her voice is like fractured glass falling through the night.  A stained glass window shattering.  Colors and lights flicker across Eliza’s vision even as gentle trickle of shards strike the earth.  Eliza looks over her shoulder.  She sees Maria on the other side of the field.  She looks back to John, sees him trying to manage as best he can.

Twenty-seven years old and far too young to be facing death like this.  Riding his stallion as though it would protect him from all the dangers of the world.  Heart and mind full of dreams that he will never see fulfilled.  Eliza knows.   _ Knows  _ that John will find no peace in this place.  In this fight.  He’ll wake tomorrow. Then the next day.  Then the next.  And he’ll die by this creek tonight and every day after.  Nothing can stop it.  His loop is eternal.

And it breaks her heart.

John looks over to her.  Wide eyes realizing she’s still there.  She’s still standing still when she should be riding as far and as fast as she can go.  Setting fire to the earth beneath her horse’s hooves as she flees.  She should have left with Maria.  Left when he gave his first command.  But she hadn’t been able to force her feet forward.  Hadn’t been able to do anything except sit there and stare, and realize that unlike Alexander— she’s going to see John fall.  And she’s going to carry this with her for the rest of her life.

“Go!” John shouts at her.  Beseeching and desperate.  Eyes wild. “ _ Go! Lady Hamilton! _ ”

_ He’s scared,  _ Eliza realizes.

Her breath catches.  Bullets cut through the air.  Soldiers are dying all around.  Maria keeps screaming her name.  Far too sensible to chase after Eliza now.  And she’s safe where she is.  Safe and secure—just as Eliza should be.  “Go!” John shouts.

Eliza can hear the British commander ordering his men back into position.  John turns and raises his sword—  _ “Fire!”  _ he shouts, slashing his sword down through the air.  

Across the field the British are falling. “Fire!” sounds another volley.  Riders burst from the undergrowth.  John spares her one final glance.  He looks like Alexander.  Like her first Philip.  Both of them in their final moments before death took them.  Eyes wide, faces pale.  Fear and uncertainty coiling about their bodies as they attempted to make sense of their lives up until that moment.

As they attempted to see if they’d lived right.

John begs her one last time, “Please, go!”

She goes.

Martha’s mare flies across the field.  Her legs reach out before her and her hooves dig into the earth.  The gallop is a delicate seat.  All four hooves leave the ground at one point before the back hooves land and the front carry them forward.  It’s a matter of riding out each foot fall.  Of joining body and soul with the creature between your legs and trusting that she knows where to go.

John is shouting orders behind her.  The British keep advancing.   _ He  _ doesn’t know where to go.  He’s going to be flanked.  He ducks his head as bullets hail.  His men are falling, he gets them aimed at the pincer, he tries to get them to concentrate.  But they’re starting to panic.  They’re breaking ranks.

“Eliza!”  Maria shouts.  She follows the sound of her friend’s voice and screams.  Two British horses are attempting to intercept her.  She jerks on the reins, one arm steadying Phil as she digs her heels into her mare’s body.  The mare startles and jolts, turning hard to avoid getting cut off, but still struggling to find an opening. 

They’re not trying to shoot her, not yet, but she can see the guns and the swords.  Steel flashes in the moonlight and she slams her heels into the ribs of her mare in an attempt to just get her to go  _ faster.  _  Unlike Holly, this mare isn’t used to battle time conditions.  She’s not used to the fighting and the chaos.  She’s looking about in startled terror and it takes everything in Eliza’s body to keep her steady and on point.

One of the soldiers rides up alongside her and tries to jerk her reins from her hand, but she kicks his chestnut steed in the rump as soon as it draws near.  The horse bucks, back legs just barely missing Eliza, and the rider is tossed off in the process.  Another rider comes alongside, but this time—John’s there.  With a furious slash of his sword he kills the rider and the horse panics.  Rushing into the woods while the soldier it carried tumbles to the ground.

Eliza’s breathing hard, but John is gulping for breath.  Sweat stains his face, mixing with splatters of blood that she cannot discern.  “Ride!” he shouts at her, and she does.  She gets her mare moving, and John is riding at her side.  Keeping her safe from the soldiers who attempt to interfere with their flight.  Defending her and Philip both.

She doesn’t hear the rest of his men.  She wonders if they’re all dead.

Another shot sounds through the air, a loud volley that has her ducking over Phil helplessly.  John cries out, and for a moment—he sounds like Alexander.  His horse slows. Even as her mare gallops several more paces.  Another volley cracks through the night.  Eliza tries to see where John is. 

He’s bent over his horse, bleeding badly, one hand pressed to his chest, the other struggling to maintain a grip on his reins.  He looks up to her.  Tears in his eyes.  He’s a  _ child.  _  He’s a child and he’s terrified.  He’s terrified of what’s going to happen, even though they both know it’s fact.  Even though they both know that there’s no stopping this now. 

Eliza’s reached Maria.  They can disappear into the night, leave the death march behind. Another bullet strikes John, his horse lets out a mighty scream and it collapses.  John’s thrown, tumbling across the ground.  He lays there for a moment.  Just a moment.  Then he’s pushing himself up.  Struggling to draw his knees underneath him.  He chokes on his air.

“We need to go,” Maria tells Eliza.

John’s shaking now.  Blood’s streaming down his face.  His brown hair stained black.  He stumbles.  His legs won’t carry his weight.  He tries to rise, but he cannot manage.  He crashes back to the ground.  Limbs trembling. 

“Take Phil,” Eliza whispers.

“What?” She’s already moving.  Already dismounting and pushing her reins into Maria’s hand.  “No-no-what are you- _ Eliza!”  _ Maria cannot hold Susan, maintain Eliza’s mare, and chase Eliza at the same time.  She’s pinned down, only capable of riding forward and nowhere else. 

It’s cruel to force Maria’s hand, but Eliza doesn’t want to wait.  She doesn’t think of waiting.  Waiting will make her change her mind, will make her  _ think.  _  But this isn’t thinking.  It’s caring.  And caring for someone doesn’t require thoughts.  It only requires action. 

John had told her to run, and Eliza runs.  She runs to him.  Runs to his side and comes to a stop by his crumpled form.  She wraps an arm around his back and pulls his own arm over her shoulder.  She lifts him as best she can and he stumbles.  Legs weak beneath him.  She doesn’t dare count wounds.  Though she can see them starting to pepper his body.  He’s done for this world whether she helps him or not.

She should leave him behind.

She should.

But he’s just a child.  Just a boy who was frightened and didn’t want to die alone.  He’s her husband’s best friend.  He very well could have been  _ her  _ best friend had they ever had the chance to know each other.  She would have loved him for all the reasons she loved Alexander.  And she would have watched him grow just as she’d watched Alexander grow.

“Come on,” she tells John, pulling him with her.  “Come on, come on!”  John gasps for air.  He presses down on her shoulder and his legs drag.  He manages to only get weight on his feet once every other step.  But she drags him anyway.  Drags him from the battlefield as invisible armies shoot guns she cannot see.  She drags him to the safety of the wood where Maria is watching them with horrified eyes.  They’ll be safe in the treeline.

More shots are fired.  John screams.  He jerks in her grasp, legs finally going numb beneath him.  He falls and drags her down into the dirt.  Her back protests, but she doesn’t care.  She puts her hands on either side of his body and heaves.  She tries desperately to carry him.  His blue coat is stained purple and the white lining is turning a deep dark red.  He stares up at her wordlessly.

British voices call for another volley to be pitched and John’s hand snatches her around her collar.  Pull her down to the ground.  He finds the strength to drag her out of harm’s way, and then he brackets her.  She cannot fathom how many times he’s been struck now, but pain lines his young face.

Sweat and blood, snot and tears, they mix together and mar the angelic curves of his cheekbones and his nose.  He’s breathing in hitching gasps.  His arms give out, and he falls.  Body draped over her, heavy and damp. 

Eliza needs to struggle to escape his weight.  Struggle to turn him onto his back, hold him in her arms as she looks desperately for the ghosts that mean to kill him.  That mean to kill  _ them.   _ John’s still alive, if only just.  He stares at her, mouth trembling around words he cannot speak.  She cups his face.  “You’re going to be all right,” she promises him.

He has the audacity to smile, to laugh on his next inhale before his face twists in agony and he coughs around a mouth full of blood. “No…” he manages to say. “You-you-you need to go,” he grits out.

“Soon, soon, I promise.  But I can’t leave you.”  She can’t.  It’s a simple truth.  Even knowing he’s going to die.  Even knowing that he’s lost everything that made up who he was.  She cannot leave him.

Her greatest failing in the world, she thinks, is that if someone is in pain—she cannot leave them to suffer it alone.  She cannot allow them to pass without knowing they are loved.  Without knowing of the great service they provided to the world.  She cannot leave this frightened boy to die again and again.  Cannot pretend that she doesn’t know he’s a child who just wants to go home.

Who just wanted to study beasts and live near his friends.  To meet his daughter and share a world he cherished with her.  To live a life he never got to live.  It’s not fair.  It’s not fair.

“T-tell Alex-Alexander I’m-I’m sorry?” John asks her.  She feels tears pressing against her eyes.

“Tell him yourself,” she whispers.  He stares at her, broken face breaking just a little more.  He’s blurring.  Tears start to fall and she loses sight of him for a moment as she squeezes her eyes shut.  “Alexander died John…he’s waiting for you on the other side.”

And he’ll keep waiting for his loved ones.  He’ll keep waiting for them to join him, because he wouldn’t wait for them.  He ran forward, and he willfully chose to die in a duel.  John Laurens died wanting to live more than anything else in the world, and Alexander had decided it no longer mattered.

Alexander was going to be waiting for the rest of their lives for them.  But…he shouldn’t have to wait for John.  He’d already waited long enough.  “I’ll show your daughter the griffons,” Eliza promises.  There’s another command to line up.  Eliza cannot determine where the guns are.  “I’ll show her your book.”

John smiles brokenly at her. Blood soaks his face, and it streams from his lips.  It’s gruesome and awful.  His eyes slide to the left.  Stare at something just behind her.  Mouth sliding open.  Slowly, his left hand lifts up.  He reaches past her.  Yearning.  “Alex…ander?”

Eliza feels her breath catch in her throat.  “ELIZA!” Maria shouts.  Eliza turns her head to see.  There’s light just out of view.  She just starts to track it when—

“FIRE!”

Something sharp snaps through her throat.

She starts to choke on blood.

Her neck bends, head turning away from the light.  She leans over John’s body.  She cannot breathe.  She cannot see.  Everything blurs.  Her back pulsates.  She’s going to die.  She knows that more than she’s ever known anything else in life.

Cold fingers wrap around her neck.  It’s useless.  There’s no stopping this.  There’s no—

“I wish you all the happiness in the world, Eliza Hamilton.” John’s voice echoes like a thought in her head.  There but not there.  A fantasy that she created out of nothingness.  She does not know where it came from or how it entered her body, but she accepts it.

She blinks hard and just manages to see his face, eerie incandescent blue.  He smiles, blood stained and covered in gore.  His hand tightens on her throat, and the cold palm warms.  Warms more and more, until it sears like a brand around her fresh.  She does not notice the pain. 

She does not notice anything except what is directly in front of her.

She stares down at John’s face.  Watches as his eyes flutter.  He smiles in his death.  His body slips from focus.  He flickers like a a light at the end of a wick.  Candle shimmering…shimmering…shimmering…

Gone.

Silence falls over the wood.  John’s disappeared, and with him—all of the British soldiers and his comrades.  There is no sign that they were even there to begin with. Eliza stares down at the place where John once was.  Her throat no longer bleeds.  She no longer feels it pressing through her lungs, choking her into oblivion.

She hears Maria rushing toward her.  Hooves echoing like drums in her head.  She sways.  Sways and falls.  Maria, as always, is there to catch her, and hold her through the night.  Eliza sleeps until dawn.

They are completely undisturbed.


	23. Confidence

Eliza wakes slowly.  For the first time in a long while, her body doesn’t ache.  Her back doesn’t twinge.  Her feet aren’t uncomfortable.  Her throat—she lifts a hand to the wound she  _ knows  _ she acquired—has only a scar on it.  Fully healed and smoothed over.  She traces the edges of the scar for several moments. 

“I thought you were dead.”  Eliza winces and tracks the sound of the voice.  She finds Maria sitting not far away.  Susan and Phil were both awake, eating the salted food from Martha’s stores.  Eliza tries to think of something to say.  Tries to come up with something that would ease Maria’s discomfort, but no words come to mind. 

She sits up.  Fingers still following the line of the wound from the back of her neck to the front of her throat.  The bullet had torn through her.  She can still taste the blood in her mouth.  Can still remember how her vision had tunnelled.  How John’s face had been almost unrecognizable beneath her as she washed him with her blood. 

And still, her thoughts travel to what he’d said— _ Alexander.   _ His eyes had looked past her shoulder.  He’d reached for something,  _ someone,  _ she’d never got a chance to see.  He’d tried to grasp what she’d never been able to grasp.  He’d been there.  She doesn’t doubt it.  Somehow, in some form, perhaps only as a gatekeeper for those crossing over, her husband had been there.  John had seen him. 

And John’s final act on earth had been to give her the last token of energy he had remaining.  Heal her in exchange for...what?  Eliza looks back to the field.  Maria’s pulled her off to the treeline, but she can still see where the battle had raged.  It’s quiet now.  But...it’s a natural quiet.  Birds are chirping and fluttering about.  Life feels as though it’s returned.  

John’s not going to come back anymore.  She knows it for a fact.  He’s moved on, and he took the other members of his death march with him.  Breaking their cycle.  Giving up.  Finally at peace. 

And Alexander...if he truly  _ had _ been there.  If he’d truly seen everything and watched John’s final moments.  Been there to carry John to the other side...he had his opportunity for her to join him.  She’d have died in scant few minutes.  And yet. 

And yet. 

John healed her.  Wished her all the happiness in the world.  Alexander had told her that.  The day he’d given her her locket.  He’d given her those words, and she had believed him.  Believed that he was going to give her happiness from that moment onward.

Happiness, she discovered, isn’t something her husband was ever capable of giving to her.  It’s not something  _ anyone  _ can give her.  It’s something that she needs to farm and cultivate on her own.  Something that she needs to look within her to bring out to the surface.  And while people can  _ influence  _ her happiness.  They can be a part of her happiness, they cannot make up the sum total of it. 

She cannot place all her dreams in one person and think that things will turn out well.  But she can find companionship with someone and be happy  _ with  _ them.  She can accept the pain of loss when it  _ does  _ happen, and she can find new happiness that exists as a different shade from all the happy days prior. 

_ I wish you all the happiness in the world.  _

“I’m moving on,” she tells Maria.  It doesn’t address Maria’s concern in the slightest.  Doesn’t answer her angry words or give her any solace as to what had occurred on the battlefield.  But a part of Eliza feels as though it’s been set free.  

The part that fretted and worried if moving on somehow destroyed her memory of her husband, has been rendered null.  The permission, if it’s even that, feels like a token of acceptance.  An apology and a quiet nod to her impassioned speech at Washington’s grave.  _  Mea culpa, please be happy.  My sweet love...take your time.   _

Eliza knows, knows just as she knew John had moved on, she’ll never hear any future mention of her husband’s ghost.  She’ll never see him.  She’ll never be with him.  He’s left for good, and she’s here now.  Her heart beats strongly in her chest, and her body feels rejuvenated. 

_ Stop wasting time on tears,  _ she tells herself.  It’s over. 

That soft request of happiness, John’s quiet plea for her to find it in whatever form it comes, it feels  _ good.   _ Her body is light.  It’s pure joy.  Her mouth forms a smile and she is exalted by it.  She stands and she feels her skin move over freshly healed wounds.  Scars have dug themselves into her body, but there is flesh coating them fully.  Her back may be marred, but it’s done now.  Everything is done. 

She looks at Maria.  Maria, who is staring at her as though she’s lost her mind.  Who doesn’t seem to know whether to be angry or confused.  Who is blinking rapidly as she attempts to form words that Eliza know are difficult to grasp.   _ Sometimes there are no words.   _ Eliza reaches for Maria’s hand and pulls her up. 

She wraps her arms around Maria’s body and she squeezes her close.  “I am sorry I frightened you,” she tells her sincerely.  Maria’s arms take their time embracing her back, but they do so eventually.  They gently wrap around her torso, mindful of wounds she still think are there. 

Eliza knows they’re not.  She feels no pain.  The pain and the grief she’s allowed herself to wallow in have fled with the night and she’s energized.  She’s powerful.  She feels free.  The shackle of misery has uncuffed itself from her ankle.  The drudging gloom and the hysteria that had haunted her steps for so long, just as pervasive as the wraiths, feel like they are finally gone. 

“You went back to save a  _ dead man  _ from  _ dying,”  _ Maria finally gets out.  And it’s the truth.  There is no doubt about it.  It’s the truth.  But Eliza cannot think of John as a dead man.  

“He didn’t know he was dead,” she tells Maria.  She pulls back to look at her.  The worry and the care are so prevalent.  The emotions bleed from Maria’s face, and it’s  _ refreshing.  _  It is so refreshing to see someone’s feelings as they truly are.  Not hidden by a mask, not hiding behind pretty words or endless prose.  Maria has always said what she meant, and she’s always looked as she felt.  

It’s everything Eliza’s ever wanted.  To  _ know _ what existed in someone’s heart.  To not be lied to.  To not be led astray.  She wanted reality.  Truth.  She wanted consistency.  Understanding.  Maria’s worried for her.  Worried for  _ her!  _ “It was not my intention to hurt you,” she says calmly.

“I don’t  _ care _ if it was your intention to hurt me,” Maria tells her sharply.  “Don’t you understand you could have died?”

“Yes.”  She had known that from the start.  But death hadn’t frightened her nearly as much as the idea of a boy spending his final moments alive watching as he was left behind.  “I trusted you to take care of  Phil—”

“— _ Eliza, your son wants you.   _ He wants  _ you  _ not me.  And what am I going to tell him when you’re not there?  When you aren’t able to help him? To look after him?  He’s your son.”  The words strike true, and Eliza sees it now. 

Making a choice and not following through to the end result.  The consequences.  Believing in something so much you’d be willing to give your life, even if it’s a snap decision.  There are consequences to action.  “I just wanted him to be free,” she tells Maria softly.  “I wanted him to be at rest.  He  _ deserves  _ to rest.” 

“Yes, he does,” it’s the nicest thing she’s said about John since they met.  “But doing it like you did?  You could have gotten yourself  _ killed.  _  And fine, you like talking to ghosts.  I can’t stop you from talking to ghosts.  I’ve no idea  _ why  _ it’s something you like doing, but whatever you want.  But  _ think  _ about  _ how  _ you’re talking to ghosts, Lord above.  Don’t you understand how dangerous that was?”

Maria’s hand moves to press against Eliza’s throat.  It cups the scar that has no business being healed so quickly, but is none the less.  Her palm is warm against Eliza’s body and she closes her eyes.  Leans into the touch.  She feels her skin tingling.  Her heart flutters.  She knows she should be contrite.  She knows she should feel  _ bad,  _ but she’s too pleased.  To light hearted. 

John’s at rest.  Alexander’s with him.  And in that final exchange, she feels as though she’s been let free.  Set them to the side.  Move on because they did and she deserves her shot at a life she wanted even if her plans have all changed. 

She wants another hug, and so she takes it.  Maria’s startled by it, but she doesn’t question.  Just stands there awkwardly, arms looped around Eliza’s body.  “I’m sorry I frightened you,” Eliza tells her.  

“Why are you so…” Maria trails off.  From their positions, Eliza cannot tell what expression her face is making.  Cannot fill in the blanks.  But she has a suspicion so she goes with it. 

“When John saved my life—”

“—You mean after you got yourself shot going back to sit with a dead man?” Maria asks bitterly.  

“Yes,  _ after that,”  _ Eliza sighs, refusing to be cowed.  “Have you ever prayed for something?  Wanted it so bad that it didn’t matter in what form it came you’d take it?”  Maria disengages from her hug.  She steps back and looks away.  Presses her lips together tightly.  There’s tension slipping up and down her muscles.  Her teeth are grinding hard enough that Eliz can hear them pop slightly along the back molars. 

Eliza waits.  Lets Maria search for the words she wants to use.  Gives her a chance to formulate her reply. “My divorce,” she says at long last.  “I wanted to be free of James.” 

“I wanted to stop hurting.” 

Maria’s fingers curl into fists.  She stands, rigid and straight.  Tall and imposing like the trees at her back.  “Ever since my husband died,  _ he  _ has been my existence.   _ Him.  _  My world came to a standstill because of  _ him.  _  My name was taken from me, my home, my agency.  Everything about my life began and ended with  _ him.” _

“Your home is still being taken from you,” Maria reminds.  “John’s death hasn’t miraculously fixed that.”

No. It doesn't. But, “I will deal with  _ my home  _ soon enough,” Eliza states firmly.  “Angelica is keeping it safe until I return to manage it on my own.” 

“You’re still the Widow Hamilton,” Maria continues.  She’s angry and passionate and she’s using everything in her repertoire to make that known. 

“That may well be the case, but how long am I meant to grieve for my husband?”  Eliza asks.  It stops Maria short.  She blinks at Eliza, as though she’d never considered the question.  As though she doesn’t know precisely how to respond.  “How long am I meant to live as  _ the Widow Hamilton _ , defined only by the fact that the man I loved is  _ dead?  _  How long am I meant to wear widow’s robes and show the world I’m miserable?  How long am I  _ meant  _ to be unhappy?  Is it when I find a new husband?  Is it when another man promises to bring me financial security, is that it?”

Her friend shrugs her shoulders.  She’s blinking rapidly, struggling to understand what Eliza’s telling her, and Eliza plows on.  “Can I not love and respect my husband, but still be  _ happy  _ after his death, or am I to be sad for the rest of my life?”

“No...no of course you shouldn’t be—”

“I’m tired of feeling  _ guilty  _ for staying alive when  _ my husband couldn’t be bothered!”  _ To her right, Phil is staring at her.  Feverish eyes wide and glassy.  She won’t apologize to him.  He’s too young to understand, and in any case, it’s not something she’s going to feel guilty about.  

Maria still staring at her as though she’s lost her mind, and perhaps a part of her  _ has  _ been lost.  Perhaps the part that’s been stained black with sorrow has finally been carved away and provided a clarity that she’s desperate to latch onto.  She feels  _ good.  _  She feels motivated.  There are a million things she hasn’t done, and she wants to do them all.  Starting here.  Starting right now. “And you decided this when you went back to hold John Laurens while he died?” Maria asks her slowly. 

“I decided this when John Laurens saw Alexander on the field, and when he  _ quoted Alexander’s vows to me. _ ”  Maria’s eyes widen.  “John never attended our wedding.  He has no reason to  _ know  _ what Alexander said, but he said the words anyway.   _ I wish you all the happiness in the world,  _ and no—I never needed his  _ permission  _ to feel better, but God damn it  _ it doesn’t hurt to know!”  _

“You saw him?” Maria asks her, voice warbling.  

“No,” Eliza says.  And surprisingly...that’s okay.  She says as much to Maria. “Alexander’s my past...and in his own way...he’s said goodbye.”  They had only a few seconds, and he’d done the best with it.  He’d used words the way he always used them—flawless and exactly what she needed to hear.  “But,” she adds slowly. “My future is my own, and he’s not going to be a part of it.” 

_ Her future is her own. _  It feels good to say it.  It feels even better to  _ believe  _ it. Standing here in front of Maria, their bodies so close together, Eliza doesn’t doubt a single moment.  “I can still honor my hubsand’s memory...still cherish him as my best friend...and still find a way to be happy without him.” 

“Maybe you  _ should  _ spend more time with ghosts,” Maria tells her.  Eliza laughs, she runs a hand through her hair and she tucks her bangs out of her eyes.  She wants to get moving.  She wants to reach the griffons, and she wants to prove that she  _ can  _ do this.  

The doubts have started to fall by the wayside and she feels stronger than she’s felt in ages.  Her body, mind, and soul has been fortified by hard steel.  Her foundation is no longer made atop sand.  She’s standing tall and proud on solid bedrock. 

Maria catches her hand as she goes to approach Phil.  Check on him before they get moving.  Maria’s fingers wrap so perfectly around her palm.  Just the right size so they slide together with ease. “Just…” Maria takes a deep breath.  “Just remember that there are people who care about you, Eliza.  Just remember that when you ride off to face your revelations of your circumstances...there are other people in the world who are left behind that aren’t just your children.” 

“I’m sorry,” Eliza says again. 

“I care about you, Lady Hamilton.  And at the end of the day...it’s  _ you  _  I want to spend time with.  Not the memory of you.  Not the dreams of the times we had together.  Not the future that I’d face without you.  I just want to know  _ you  _ more.  So...if it pleases you...try to be a bit more careful next time?” 

It’s a promise that Eliza has every intention on keeping.  She squeezes Maria’s hand, and kisses her cheek.  “I promise,” she says firmly.  “Now.  Let’s go save our children.” 

There’s work to be done. 


	24. The Long Lakes

Eliza’s energy lasts her all throughout the day.  She hoists her saddle up onto Martha’s horses’ backs, and she finds her confidence growing with each act she commences.  The buckles don’t fumble beneath her fingers.  Her arms don’t ache when she hoists the saddlebags into position.  She’s lifted her son up and onto a horse so many times now, that she doesn’t notice the strain.  Every so often she’ll trace the scar on her throat, but she doesn’t think anything more on the physical wellness she’s been gifted. 

Guiding the horses forward, she checks the map with Maria impatiently.  Calculating their location from their surroundings and wanting nothing more than to just  _ arrive.  _  It’s been weeks since they left home, and now they’re in the Carolinas and all Eliza wants is to end this journey as quickly as possible.  

John had spoken of the griffons as though they were the most majestic and wonderful creatures in existence.  He’d obviously been fond enough to continue traveling to visit them.  To take all the notes he’d had in Alexander’s book, both praising the beasts as well as cautioning Alex against future stupidity.  

Re-reading his notes now, Eliza finds that she’s even more impatient for their journey to be over.  She wants to see them.  Wonders if they’re the same griffons that John had seen as a child.  Their lifetimes more than dwarf a human’s.  John had made it clear that they could live hundreds of years. 

Hundreds of years of life.  It seems almost impossible to imagine.  Far beyond anything she’d ever want for herself.  “Imagine what they’ve seen?” she muses anyway. 

“The griffons?” Maria clarifies as she squints at the trees around them.  They’re drawing close now.  The map made it seem like they were almost on top of the lake less than an hour ago, and now each step forward Eliza expects to see sparkling brown water.  She’s already licking her lips in anticipation.  Eagerness filling her with endless energy. 

“Four hundred years ago this land was only populated by the natives, and yet...here we are.  Things have changed quite a bit since then, I’d say.”

“And they’ll keep changing,” Maria agrees.  “It’s the only thing in the world that  _ doesn’t  _ change, the...con-con... _ idea _ that the world will  _ always  _ change.” 

“Concept?” Eliza offers.  Maria nods and thanks her. 

“Yes, concept.” 

The arc of a life always followed the same pattern.  You’re born, you are a child, you follow your parent’s advice and you learn how to stand on your own.  You’re married, you have children, you work hard, and then you live into your retirement.  Your children care for you as you cared for them, and you die (hopefully) with no regrets. 

Seventy years, eighty—it seems more than enough time to accomplish such goals.  And yet...griffons lived so much longer than that.  They saw the world move about and continue on a mad quest to hurry faster and faster from place to place.  They saw humanity racing to the finish line while they took their time.  They waited. 

Humanity must seem so petty to griffons.  So inconsequential. 

She continues musing even as they draw closer.  Letting her mind wander as one arm hugs Phil to her chest.  She strokes his side with her fingers.  Soothing and calming him as his breath hitches and he makes a quiet moaning sound.  His fever’s burning hotter today than it had all trip.  His face is already flushed bright.  She’s been trying to get him to drink more water, but he’s started turning it away, not accepting it.  Mouth refusing to swallow. 

As elated as she’s been since John’s death march ended, it didn’t overshadow anything.  She’s fully aware of her situation, and fully capable of multitasking the feelings that are combatting one another.  The relief of finally feeling free to move on does not compare to the reality that her son is still dying.  It is only supported by hope that soon this would all be over.  Hope, Eliza reasons, is truly her last stand at the moment. 

There is no logic in this journey.  There’s only hope.  Hope and the faith to believe that the griffons can help.  Will help.  John believed in them.  The only one who has so far.  He believed in the griffons and he hadn’t hesitated.  He’d encouraged them to ask.  Even if he’s the only voice amongst thousands—Eliza will take it each time. 

They stride forward, and Eliza  _ feels  _ it when they cross into the griffons’ territory.  Maria does too.  Both horses halt immediately, and Eliza stares forward.  Half expecting the great creature to land before them just like that.  Half expecting to be faced with the beasts/not-beasts that they’d been searching for for so long. 

The griffons don’t appear.  In fact, nothing physically changes at all about their surroundings.  They still cannot see the lakes.  They still cannot see any signs of the creatures about.  There are no scratch marks on trees.  No feathers lining the ground.  No paw prints offset by bird claws.  Nothing. 

And yet, the air feels cooler here.  The sounds of the woods seem lighter.  There’s a sparking feeling.  Nerves crawling about underneath Eliza’s skin.  She can feel her flesh tingle madly.  Her hair stands on end.  The summer heat smells strangely of a lightning storm, even though the sky remains bright blue.  Even though the sun still shines above. 

Eliza can  _ taste  _ the change on her tongue.  Her mouth feels full with an almost citrusy sweet flavor.  She closes her eyes and imagines suckling on the nectar of a lost fruit.  Imagines burying herself in the juices and lapping at the folds of its skin.  She’s burning with desire, and she squeezes her hand around her reins.  Needs to blink a few times to keep her mind moving forward. 

She urges her horse forward, and the mare goes with ease.  Almost eagerly as if even  _ her  _ concern has been evaporated.  They travel only another hundred yards or so, and then finally—there’s water on the horizon.  “Maria—”

“—I see it,” her friend says.  It’s a breathless response, and both of them encourage the horses faster.  Hurry, hurry, hurry.  They practically fly through the woods, cutting through the trees and over fallen logs.  

They reach the first of the Long Lakes in seconds, and once there they cannot help but take in the beauty and the majesty of the sight.  Though Eliza’s lived next to the ocean most of her life, she cannot help but feel overcome by the glittering water and the bright clear sky above.  Unlike the thick murky green of the ocean, this water is crystalline blue. 

Blue like the Caribbean, and so clear you could see all the way to the bottom.  You could see the fish swimming so far down.  You could see the turtles walking on the shore.  There’s a beaver swimming about, unmolested as it paddles along.  The ground turns from thick forest wood to rich sands.  Bright and tan colored.  Eliza slides off her horse.  Her feet sink in the sand and it feels so  _ wonderful.  _

She pulls her son down and she holds him to her body.  She approaches the water and kneels by the shore.  Lowers him so his fevered skin can touch the lapping waves.  His hand reaches out and sinks beneath the surface.  And she relishes the soft sigh that leaves his lips.  Relishes how he giggles slightly, despite the fever and the exhaustion that constantly grips his little body.  He giggles at the water, and he smiles up at her.  Eyes fever bright. 

Eliza tilts her head to the sun and she lets her eyes start wandering the skies.  There’s no great flap of wings.  There’s no sign of a half lion half eagle creature diving through clouds or soaring over treetops.  As far as the woods are concerned, there is nothing here but silence.  Silence and the strange,  _ beautiful,  _ long lake. Narrow enough that she could see both sides of it at once, but stretching out so far that she couldn’t see its end.  It goes on for miles, she’s been told.   _ Miles  _ of crystal blue water and unimaginable serenity. 

“We should keep looking,” Maria tells her, and Eliza agrees.  She fills their canteens.  She climbs back onto her horse and secure Philip once more.  With a nod to her companions, they start following the shoreline.  Looking for anything and everything that would point them in the right direction. 

But after four hours they’ve not come to the end of the first lake, nor seen any sign of the griffons.  The sun starts to fall, and they grudgingly stop for the night.  Eliza cannot help but wonder if this is how Maria felt.  Peering through windows at the dancing inside, but not being able to enter.  Not being able to find the peace and joy and happiness that lay just beyond. 

It’s such an easy barrier to break.  Such an easy wall to cross through, and yet when you cross through it the wrong way everything shatters.  Everything falls apart and you are ostracized.  Cursed. 

There are no shortcuts with the griffons.  John had been explicitly clear in his notes  _ they cannot steal  _ from the griffons or they  _ would  _ be cursed.  Eliza had wanted to ask.  Wanted to clarify if that meant they couldn’t just pick up the talon shavings they found.  Wanted to get specific, but there’d been no time.  There’d been no time and now it’s instinct alone. 

And the energy that surrounds the lakes is far too pervasive to imagine as anything other than  _ knowing.  _  Eliza feels as if they’re being watched, but even when they light a fire—there’s no  _ sound  _ of night walkers.  There’s no sound of death or despair.  No ghosts rising from their graves.  No death marches.  No wraiths howling in the distance. 

The wood is quieter than even Mount Vernon, with all its insulated wall.  It’s quieter than Eliza thinks woods have ever been.  Pleasant and safe.  The griffons’ territory is  _ safe.  _  Even when Maria tells her she’ll keep first watch, even as the children are curled up side by side and it’s time to lay down herself, Eliza doesn’t think she’d mind if Maria fell asleep tonight too. 

She curls up with her head against Maria’s chest.  Breathes in the scent of Maria’s body and she wraps her arm around Maria’s waist.  Maria doesn’t need to be careful of her back any longer, and so she’s secured with a tight grip about her spine.  It’s wonderful.  “Sleep, Lady,” Maria tells her.  “I’ll wake you if I see a griffon.” 

Eliza nods against her breast.  And she goes to sleep.

*** 

Maria wakes Eliza while it’s still dark.  Almost half asleep as she mumbles that Eliza needs to take over.  She slumps to the side and is completely out before Eliza’s even finished sitting up properly, and Eliza can’t help but smile fondly at her in response.  She stands up, stretching her back.  Tries to get her blood flowing so she isn’t lulled back into slumber.

The fire circle is well tended to, Maria had kept it going throughout the night.  The crystals are still in place, and nothing seems to have changed.  Kneeling beside Phil and Susan, Eliza places the back of her hand against her son’s head.  Bites her lip at the still burning heat.  She’s never heard of a fever lasting this long.  Not unabated.  

He’s lost weight.  His once healthy cheeks, coated in a soft layer of baby fat have turned taught around his bones.  His chest is thin and she can feel his ribs.  He’s lighter now than he used to be.  Fits against her body when she holds him, but it’s all bones and fragile skin.  Easily bruised and easily torn.  She kisses his brow and closes her eyes.  They’re here now.  They’re here now, and the griffons are here, and this is going to be over soon. 

It’s going to. 

Eliza wraps him up more firmly under Martha’s blankets.  She checks in on Susan and bites her lip when she sees Susan twitching her her sleep.  Limbs jerking.  Like a dog chasing a rabbit in her dreams.  Running to or running away, Eliza’s not sure anymore

She stands up again.  Paces the circle.  Walks round and round and round.  The sun hasn’t risen yet, and the more she walks the more unusual it feels.  To not have the dead nipping at their heels.  To not listen to their fight battles they likely will never win.  Not every one of them will be put to rest.  Not everyone gets the ending they deserve.  They’ll fight on and on, and fill the night up with more hoots and howls.

But none here.

For whatever reason, maybe it truly is just the griffons’ presence, there’s no dead here.  Eliza half hopes it means that Susan and Phil are safe here.  More safe than anywhere else, because if nothing dies in this wood...then neither will they.  Then again, a lack of ghost or spirit does not indicate a lack of death.

Surely the beaver eats.  Surely the birds hunt.  Death occurs all around, but it does not linger.  It does not remain.  The wood is at peace.  Eliza wonders what it would take for all the world to be at peace. 

There’s movement in the hedges.  Eliza turns her head and listens.  Casts her ears outwards in hopes of picking up size.  Depth.  Location.  The rustling starts slowly.  Eliza walks to the edge of the fire, and peers into the gloom.  

Footfalls sound like soft beaten drums.  A deep bass note made hollow from the earth.  Low and dull.  Resonating anyway.  Eliza’s heart increases, a snare echoing the base but driving it higher.  Faster.  The measure reaches the end of the line and it loops on the repeat.  There’s no rest, no pause to catch your breath, just repeat.  Repeat and continue the phrase.  Twenty notes in fast succession each growing louder and louder.  It builds in her head, and she’s the only one who hears it. 

Funny, as it drowns out the sounds of everything else.

And the wood stays quiet.

The cacophony is hers alone. 

There’s a shape in the darkness.  Massive.  Tall.  It walks forward with slow steps.  A shadow navigating the underbrush.  The base drum keeps on, like a metronome guiding her heart.  Count the beats.  One, two, three, four, five, six, one, two, three, four, five, six. 

It’s not a wraith.  Something tall spreads off the back of the shadow, but it’s not a shroud.  Eliza steps forward.  Her toes edge the line of fire.  She can feel it warming her body and licking against her skin.  It doesn’t hurt.  Wings.  Those are wings.  

Eliza steps over the fire line.  Flames trace up her legs, but she isn’t burnt by them.  She walks closer to the shadow, follows it as it walks.  It moves with impressive stability.  The front held high and noble, the back easily padding along the ground. 

It walks slowly, leisurely, following the lines of the lake with a kind of grace that Eliza’s never seen on another animal.  John is right.   _ Beast  _ seems like the wrong word.  Each step forward swings a tail to the left and the right.  Wings fold up neatly along the spine.  They walk further and further, far away from the camp.  The occasional feather slides from the wings, fluttering to the ground.  Occasionally Eliza will see a slight bit of hardness.  The shell of a talon? 

She does not stop for any of them.  Just keeps following behind.  Watching.  Eyes wide. She cannot bring herself to stop. 

The moon starts to sink, but they continue to walk.  The griffon doesn’t once address her.  She doesn’t once address it.  Then, slowly, the griffon turns.  Pausing at the side of the lake and leaning down toward the water.  Front legs folding beneath its body as it kneels.  

Eliza stands not far away.  Her feet not quite stepping into the sand.  Her breath catches in her throat.  It makes a noise.  A slide of a bow over strings.  Slight squeak.  Slight screech.  No real note.  Just off key. 

The griffon’s head rises.   It’s front legs unfold and it stands.  Turns slowly to look at her.  Wings spreading and arching so that they can be fully seen from crest of the arch down to the end of the tailing feathers. The face is owl like, wide and piercing.  The body—clearly feline. 

The griffon sits, letting it’s rump plop to the ground with a noisy thud.  Tail curling around it.  It looks at Eliza, and she cannot breathe.  She can only stare. 

“Welcome, Lady Hamilton.  We’ve been waiting for you.” 


	25. Raslidor

All things considered, Eliza’s absurdly grateful that she  _ knew  _ griffons could speak before today.  Not that she  _ believed  _ John entirely, but.  It helped.  He just barely managed to bite her tongue in time.  Keep the amazed proclamation  _ you can talk!  _ From skipping passed her lips.  She stares at the griffon and she feels as though the breath’s been knocked from her lungs and she wants nothing more than to spark the fire of thoughts that need to be  _ thought,  _ but nothing’s working and her mind is a mess and—

“You should breathe,” she’s advised.

Yes. Breathing is important. 

Open mouth.  Expand lungs.  Hold for at least five seconds.  Let it out.  She feels absurdly dizzy, but the breathing is helping.  Good.  At least...griffons were apparently polite?  This one is, in any case.  Eliza’s never met another griffon.  Can’t make an opinion on an entire species off the representation of one griffon.  That’d be inaccurate.  Bad science.  Rude.  Maria’d probably tell her she was being rude.  She’d be right too. 

Still. 

This one’s making a good impression. 

“You can relax,” she instructed.  And just  _ how  _ is the griffon speaking? Exactly? Because it’s— _ (hers? The voice sounds feminine?)— _ beak isn’t moving and it’s/she’s still sitting there patiently and.  And.  “We can hear your thoughts,” the griffon tells her.

And John  _ clearly  _ missed that in his research, because Eliza suddenly feels  _ very  _ ill prepared.  Also.  The griffon is laughing at her now.  There are clicking chuckles filling Eliza’s mind, and the griffon’s shoulders are shaking.  The wings are fluffing out.  It’s eyes squint, feathers puffing as the beak opens just a touch. 

“In his defense,” the griffon tells her.  “He  _ was  _ a child when we met.” 

“You’re the same one,” Eliza gasps.  She feels dull and dim-witted.  Everything’s rushing about in her head and if it’s true that the griffon  _ can  _ hear her thoughts, then the beast truly must find her to be mad.  And rude.  Most certainly rude.  But if this griffon truly is the same one that John knew—

“—We are.” Oh.  Eliza’s staring again.  “Our name is Raslidor...and you may consider us whatever gender you wish.  We are not constrained.”  Eliza has no idea what that means.  But she nods her head anyway. “Welcome to our home.” 

“Our...we?” Eliza looks around, but she sees no other griffons.  Sees no other sign that they are not alone. 

Raslidor stands. She—no...Raslidor kept saying ‘we’ so...they?— walk toward Eliza and Eliza keeps still.  Doesn’t flinch away from them.  Truly, she doesn’t even feel her muscles tightening from fear or stress.  The moon shines brightly down around them.  Their feathers are a twany brown.  Dappled with black flecks that grown more pervasive around their face.  

There is a narrow ring of white feathers around Raslidor’s eyes.  Framing and accenting  the glowing yellow of their irises with sharp acuity.  A lighter brown dips off from there, followed by dark brown flakes that pepper on down their body.  Their beak curves low in front of their face.  It’s black.  Hooked and savage.  Yet Raslidor’s face doesn’t hold even a trace of violence or potential will to attack.  Their body language remains neutral. 

The tuffs of feathers that curve like ears off the top of their head are various shades of brown.  The feline hindquarters slides easily into the avian front.  Tuffs all around.  Eliza cannot tell where the feathers end and the fur begins.  Only that it seems like a gradual process.  One that ends with a neatly curled tail that’s fluffier than Eliza had imagined, less  _ lion  _ and more...house cat.  While well groomed, the surprisingly bouncy tail is perhaps the most surprising part of the whole appearance. 

“We are one.  All of us, all of our kind.  We are one.  We share one thought.  We speak one language.  We listen to one voice.”

“You mate for life,” Eliza offers up, flushing badly as she realizes how inappropriate it was to say.  But she doesn’t know what else to add.  She cannot help but stumble over herself in a desperate attempt to add what she does know.  Feeling foolish no matter what. 

Raslidor doesn’t show offense.  Just nods slowly.  “Physically we may mate with only one of ourselves, but our souls and minds share many partners.  We are never truly alone.  We never wish to be alone.  We are one.  Our children and our families are ourselves.”

John had either been too young to understand, or had willfully left such complexities from the book.  His drawings had been far more accurate than his reporting of their social structure.  Each one carefully penned down.  Not perfect, certainly, but still faithful all the same. “He was a good boy,” Raslidor tells Eliza.  “We were sorry to see him go.” 

“You know he’s dead?”  Eliza asks.  She feels as though she’s caught in the middle of a song.  There’s sheet music she can read just fine if the tempo stays slow, but the metronome keeps ticking faster and she doesn’t know where to begin.  She’s lost her place in the conversation, and Rasildor’s majesty isn’t helping. 

“We know everything.”  

Everything.  How can one being know  _ everything?  _

“The same way we know your thoughts.  We listen.  We think.  We analyze and decide.”  Raslidor lowers their head.  Presses what Eliza assumes is their brow against her hand.  It takes her a moment to respond, but she does.  She lifts her hand and she lets it slide through the feathers.  She lets it coil through the tufts and slide around the skull. 

Each feather is soft beneath her fingers.  Softer than any bird she’s ever felt.  It’s like touching a cloud.  What she assumes clouds to feel like.  Slight edges of fur line each feather, so fine that she can hardly feel them.  Can only feel the larger edges of whole feathers rather than anything small and individual.  “We’ve been listening to you for a while.  Since you left home.”

“How?” Eliza asks, still sliding her hand through the feathers.  Feeling as the feathers shift beneath her touch.  The a few feathers have folded on top of each other awkwardly, and she fixes them.  Lays them down flat.  Gently nudges them back into place. 

When Raslidor responds, the answer is no less vague.  Perhaps there  _ is  _ no better explanation.  It’s a paradigm Raslidor seems to show no interest in elaborating on.  “We listen,” Raslidor tells Eliza slowly.  “We listen, and we waited.  Your son and daughter are sick.” 

Susan’s not her daughter.  Eliza says as much as she finishes fixing the feathers.  Her hands want to travel more.  Want to keep feeling what she feels like and enjoying the sensation beneath her touch.  “Blood does not combine a family.  We are not blood to many of our kin, but that does not mean we are not kin. That we are not one.”

Eliza lets her hands fall to her sides.  She takes a deep breath, and she meets Raslidor’s eyes.  “Can you help them?” she asks with all the hope in her heart.  She trembles as she asks it.  Adrenaline flooding her blood stream and leaving her slightly dizzy once the words have taken shape. 

“Yes,” Raslidor tells her calmly. 

It’s almost too easy.   _ “Will  _ you help them?” Eliza clarifies, just to be certain.  Raslidor’s shoulders hitch slightly, they rise and fall with gentle jitters.  Beak opening.  Laughing once more.  

“Yes,” they reply.  

_ Too easy, _ Eliza thinks.  The laughter pauses, and instead, the griffon’s head tilts to the side.  Considering.  “Why?” It cannot be that easy.  If merely asking was all it took...then why did no one believe the griffons would help?  Why did each person they met try to turn them away? 

It cannot be as simple as asking. 

Raslidor hums thoughtfully, before stretching out their legs in front of their body.  Their back arches, wings spreading as far as they will go.  Sixteen feet?  Twenty?  Eliza’s never been good at budgeting distance before.  But the span is greater than she is.  She doesn’t even think that two of her could stand on top of each other and reach the distance of Raslidor’s wings. 

They fold up behind their back though, and they settle back into a seated position.  Talons lifting one by one like fingers tapping on a writing desk.  They lift up and curl down, squeezing sand beneath their feet.  “We choose to help, because of who you are.” 

Eliza doesn’t understand.  “The...Widow Hamilton?” Or  _ Lady  _ Hamilton, that’s how Raslidor had greeted her in any case.  But the griffon shakes their head.  Continues curling their talons into the sand. 

“That is a name, a title, it is not who  _ you  _ are.”  Raslidor’s voice is calming.  Gentle.  It penetrates through Eliza’s skull with soft reassurances and pervasive intent.  Sinking deep into the gray matter that exists between her ears.  “You are many things, but you are not a name.  Not a Schuyler, not a Hamilton, you are you.  And who  _ you  _ are is infinitely more important than what your name is.” 

“How do you know who I am?” Eliza asks.  

This time, when Raslidor sighs it’s a whole body affair.  Wings sliding a little from their back.  “We listened.” 

“You keep saying that—”

“—You thought of us, in your home.  When you held John’s book.  You thought of us.”   She didn’t know it was  _ them,  _ though.  She’d been thinking of griffons as a whole.  She’d done so their whole journey.  Had followed the paths that led her here, but she hadn’t imagined Raslidor specifically.  “It matters little,” the griffon tells her.  “Intent, Lady Hamilton, is everything.” 

Martha had said the same.  Hand given them crystals and told them that the intent made everything work.  Believing in it.  Gifting it.  “She was not wrong.  Intent defines all life.  And while we can listen to your thoughts, we know that thoughts do not define a life.  Intent defines a life.” 

She’s not sure what they’re talking about any longer.  Feels like she’s losing the thread of the conversation. “I don’t understand,” she admits awkwardly.  Struggling to grasp at the knowledge Raslidor is freely giving. 

“When the humans came, at first they came to ask.”  Raslidor steps back and walks toward the lake.  Eliza follows, each one of the griffon’s steps nearly four of her own.  She needs to sprint to catch up, feet fumbling through the sand.  “They asked for our help.  For our knowledge, and we provided.  But we listened.  We listened as they spoke of taking our gifts.  Of selling our gifts.  They would ask for our gifts and they would lie.  They would not use them for the purposes they indicated.  They were greedy.  They were wrong.” 

Lowering their head into the water, Raslidor drinks some more.  Settles down to lay with their front claws tapping against the waves.  “When you left home, your thoughts and intent have always been clear.  You wished to save the life of your son, and later,  your daughter.” 

“I thought I’d steal from you,” Eliza admits. 

“We know.” Raslidor glances at her. Yellow eyes flickering bright under the moon. “But you did not. You followed for miles, watched as I walked.  You did not stop to pick up the feathers I dropped.  Did not stop to steal the nails I left in the sand.  You followed.  You may have thought of stealing what is mine, but your intent...your intent was different.”

Curiosity, Eliza supposes, had led her to this moment.  Curiosity had brought her here.  Had she been anyone else, she would have fetched the very items she’d come here to fetch.  She would have avoided the sharp talons and the terrible claws.  She’d put herself at risk, just as Maria had warned her not to.  She hadn’t stopped to think.  “No...you don’t think of the danger you’re in.  You’ve a remarkable talent for it.” 

It sounds like an insult. 

But Raslidor laughs again.  Good humor seeming to fill the griffon’s body.  For a creature that had lived hundreds of years, Eliza wonders how they can find anything humorous.  Least of all someone like  _ Eliza.  _  She flushes, embarrassed by her own poor abilities.  “Long ago, we decided to no longer involve ourselves with affairs of the humans.  We listened only for their intent, and we did not let them pass.  Did not reveal ourselves should they be deemed unworthy.

“But you...Lady Hamilton.  You’ve been strong from the start.” 

_ Strong?  _ Eliza shakes her head, starts to explain.  No, she’d been crying.  She’d been scared.  She’d made so many mistakes.  Hurt Maria time and again.  She’d become lost and confused.  The night still terrorized her.  She feared wraiths and what they could do, and yet—

“—How does any of that not mean you are strong?”  Eliza doesn’t know.  “You are here, are you not?  You have persevered?  And through it all, you have proven yourself.  You’ve made your intent clear.” 

Raslidor’s expression turns almost fond.  It’s a strange look for a bird-like face.  The beak cannot change shape, but the eyes lessen in intensity.  The tufts on the top of their head are scooped down.  Gentle and endearing.  “Rachel,” Raslidor explains.  “You helped see Rachel to the other side.” 

“You  _ know  _ about that?” Eliza asks breathlessly. 

“We listened,” Raslidor repeats. “We listened as you met a stranger on the road and you treated them with respect.  We listened as you fought the wraiths and as Ms. Maria showed no fear.  We listened as you spoke with John Laurens and you gave our boy peace.  Peace that not even his General could provide.”

_ “Washington—?”  _ Eliza cuts herself off.  She’s not sure she knows what she’s even asking. The question dies in her throat, but she stares at Raslidor until the griffon slowly nods. 

“He visited our boy often while he was still alive.  Spoke to him many times.  But never could he find the way to set him free.  To give him his peace.  You did what no other could do.  You helped him go home.” Raslidor reaches a wing toward Eliza.  Pulls her close with a slight nudge of their tail feathers.  She lets herself fall into comfort, become enveloped, almost, by the wing around her shoulders.  “You came to us to save your children.  And we will save your children, because you have faced every trial, and you have persevered.” 

The information makes her head spin.  She tries to come to terms with all of it.  Tries to put each moment into perspective, but it all falls flat and she can only manage: “I didn’t know they were trials,” as Raslidor’s wing settles more firmly around her body.  

“Life consists of one trial after another.  You will never know what the trials are for or when they will be judged, but each action you take is a trial in of itself.  You are here, and you are succeeding, because of who  _ you  _ are.  No more.  No less.” 

Tilting her head to the left, Raslidor taps her with their wing once more.  “Sit before my wings.” 

“What?” Eliza asks, eyes widening.  

“You children...time is of the essence, don’t you agree?”  Their eyes close in a half squint, and the feathers fluff a little around the beak.  A grin shapes itself amongst the feathers and Eliza reaches out.  She places one hand on Raslidor’s neck, the other on the space between the wings.  With a careful hoist, she manages to get her body up over Raslidor’s back. 

Her legs hang over the griffon’s shoulders.  Her hands clutch against feathers she’d just sorted through. She isn’t given time to adjust.  Almost as soon as she was in position, Raslidor starts running.  Three steps, four, kick! They’re airborne and Eliza screams.  

Wind starts whipping around her body, her hair is flying in all directions.  She holds on for dear life and she looks out at the sky above her.  The ground below.  The Long Lakes still stretch out as far as the eye can see.  No end in sight.  The forest wraps around it with thick trees of dark green and deep browns.  

Her heart is fluttering faster and faster in her chest.  She’s flying! She’s  _ flying!  _ Eliza’s mouth widens into a smile.  The wind is digging into her cheeks.  Stripping at the top layer of flesh.  Tears come to her eyes from the pressure alone, but she cannot help feel a sense of  _ unrepentant glee  _ bursting behind her ribs.  

Raslidor lands far too soon.  Far too quickly for it to be all right.  They land almost precisely into the fire ring.  Maria’s already awake, and from the look on her face Eliza had worried her when she’d disappeared.  It’s another thing she needs to apologize for. 

But not yet.  Not now.  Maria is staring at them, standing above their children, and she gapes.  Mouth wide.  Raslidor bends enough for Eliza to slide off her seat.  Stumble to her feet and stand on her own.  Maria is still staring, though now there’s something slightly hysteric about her expression.  “Eliza...when I told you that  _ maybe you should spend some more time with ghosts,  _ I did  _ not  _ mean for you to take that as an active invitation to go riding on  _ griffons!”  _

Raslidor’s wings start shaking again, though she doesn’t produce the laughing sound that Eliza’s come to recognize.  “Maria, this is Raslidor,” Eliza introduces.  “They said they’d help Phil and Susan.” 

“Welcome to our home,” Raslidor adds.  Maria jumps badly.  Staring at the griffon in numbed shock. Mouthing 'they' in confusion. “We have much to discuss,” Raslidor continues.  “But first...we’d like to see to the little ones.” 

Without stopping to pause, the griffon lifts up one front leg and slams it down on the ground.  Two strips pulled off one of the longest talons.  “Take them and grind them,” Raslidor tells them.  Eliza snatches them up from the ground.  There’s a rock nearby, not too big and just heavy enough. 

She lays the strip out flat and smashes them as hard as she can.  Smashes and rolls the rock over them.  Again and again and again.  She throws all of her energy into it.  Keeping track of where any of the pieces are and moving them back to center if they start to drift just a little to the left and to the right too much. 

They turn to powder surprisingly easily, and Eliza half wonders if that’s on purpose.  If, because they have this power, they were constructed with such things in mind.  It doesn’t matter.  She grinds and grinds and grinds until all that’s left are flakes that are small and granulated. 

“Mix it with water, and allow them both to drink their fill.” Maria fetches a canteen, hurries down to the lake to refill it and then returns so Eliza could put the powder inside. 

They shake the bottle to be thorough, and then, with both of their hands still on the bottle, Eliza pushes it toward Maria. “Give it to Susan first,” Eliza says firmly.  “She’s worse off.” Tears fill Maria’s eyes as she mumbles out a ‘thank you.’  She kneels at Susan’s side and she brings her daughter’s head up in her lap. 

Slowly and carefully she tips the canteen over.   _ Slowly _ she encourages Susan to swallow mouthful after mouthful.  Until the canteen is half gone and she gives it to Eliza to do the same for Phil. Maria hold Susan, and Eliza holds her son. 

And just as the sun starts peaking above the horizon, just as dawn rises and light starts to fill the land, Susan’s shaking finally stops.  And their fevers break.


	26. When A Plague is Not A Plague

The fire circle dies out.  Unattended to and unimportant.  Raslidor lays within it the whole while, wings carefully folded along their back as they watch Eliza and Maria sit side by their children’s sides.  Phil’s cheeks have lost some of the dark red flush Eliza’s come to know so intimately on this journey.  His skin is is starting to take on a healthy pallor.  The dark Caribbean tan he inherited from his father, mixed with her smoother shades.  

Phil’s breathing feels natural against her body.  The hitching gasps she’d started to grow alarmingly comfortable slow down.  They become full, deep, breaths.  And above all else, his body remains still.  His limbs aren’t shaking.  He’s no longer mewling in his sleep.  Coughing and gagging around a lump tight in his throat.  He’s at peace. 

Not far away, Susan is doing just as well.  Maria keeps kissing her daughter’s face.  Whispering quiet ‘thank yous’ over and over again.  She started crying the moment the shaking stopped, and she shows no signs of stopping.  Gratitude burns hot and bright, she’d do anything to give thanks.  To make it up to Raslidor.  But Raslidor merely tells her that she’s already done enough. 

They both have. 

Susan and Phil are sleeping again, but this time the sleep feels natural.  Feels good.  They look more healthy by the moment.  Not as if they are sliding down a slippery slope.  Preparing for the harsh death that would meet them at the bottom.  Eliza settles Phil by Susan’s side, and watches as he cuddles his head against her in his slumber.   _ Siblings,  _ Raslidor would have called them.  She supposes after all this time they may as well be.  

When she looks up at Maria, she can honestly say she doesn’t  _ want  _ to see Maria leave.  She wants to go home.  Live at the Grange, and she wants Maria there with her.  Wants her companionship and her conversations.  Wants someone to talk to, someone to hold late at night.  Someone to be there when the night terrors come out, when the bad dreams start.  

She’s started to become so comfortable sleeping in the arms of someone else.  Starting to feel the steady slide of interest and hope that builds in her body whenever she searches for Maria there.  Maria’s accent has carved out a space in Eliza’s heart, one that Eliza finds charming and lovely.  

Eliza bites her lip when she looks at Maria, trying to hold back on an urge she knows may very well be inappropriate.  She glances awkwardly to Raslidor, knowing full well the griffon can hear her thoughts.  Can divine her intent.  Raslidor tilts their head and stares at Eliza.  Judging her coolly. 

She doesn’t like feeling judged.  Of all the feelings in the world, shame in this moment is not the one she wants.  And yet she feels it.  Feels it deep within her.  A tingle on the underside of her brain, growing more and more pervasive with each passing second.  

Maria looks at her and she is beautiful.  She is wonderful.  She has helped them and saved them, she has scolded her and held her, and Eliza wonders how it can be that for so long she’s looked at Maria and not  _ seen  _ how much she wants to be there.  Standing by her side.  Never to be parted. 

It’s not friendship.  Eliza has no desire to meet occasionally for Sunday tea.  To spend meal times discussing events of the weeks and then politely bidding goodbye once they’ve finished conversing for the evening.  Eliza wants Maria’s hand in her hair.  Wants her arms around her body.  Wants her smile against her cheek. 

She wants to be scolded when she makes an error.  She wants to be rewarded when she does well.  She wants to laugh at midnight with the blankets pulled up over their heads.   _ Listen to what the children did today!  _ She wants to wake in the morning and attend to her matters and have Maria with her on the sofa when the bankers come to barter.  Have Maria’s hand in hers when she tells them to go away. 

The Grange is  _ hers  _ and she’s not letting anyone take it. 

She wants the endless companionship that her husband failed to provide.  That he had been too selfish, in the end, to give her.  That he’d apologized for, speaking through John across the divide of life and death.  That he’d told her to seek out, as he could never be what she truly wanted. 

_ Just come home at the end of the day...that would be enough.  _  Eliza’s lips feel warm.  The top and bottom heat up and pull all her focus to them.  They feel far too much for a part of her body she rarely pays much attention to, but she’s hyper aware of their presence on her face.  Of how they currently are rolling over themselves.  How her tongue wets them awkwardly.  How embarrassment has flooded her body.  Reminding her of how inappropriate this is. 

How she needs to stop thinking of it. 

How there are other matters to attend to. 

How kissing Maria and holding her close.  Thanking her for everything she did and embracing her like she would her husband, is not something she should be fantasizing about here and now.  “You said there was much we needed to talk about?” Eliza asks instead.  She directs it to Raslidor whose tail has started flicking from side to side and is starting to look vaguely annoyed. 

“There is,” they say anyway, sighing.  They couldn’t sound more disgruntled if they tried, and Eliza tries not to feel like she’s somehow upset the griffon.

Maria reaches for Eliza’s hand, and she takes it immediately.  More than willing to take anything Maria felt like giving her.  Her friend leads her forward, so they are standing before Raslidor.  Even lying down, the griffon’s head is massive.  It’s almost as wide as both of their bodies standing side by side, and it sits tall enough that Eliza can still look them in their eyes. 

A bird started chirping from a tree nearby.  Hopping along the branches as it sang its morning song.  Raslidor tilts their head to listen for a moment, eyes closed and feathers fluffed in an almost pleasant expression.  As the song ends, their eyes open once more, and are far more serious when they land on both Eliza and Maria.  “If you return to your homes now, your children will fall ill again, and you will not be able to return.” 

Maria’s palm squeezes down around Eliza’s like a vice.  It nearly crushes her fingers she squeezes so hard.  Eliza cannot tell if it’s the pain in her hand or the words themselves that cause her to freeze in place.  Cannot tell what’s causing her reaction.  Only that it’s there, burning within her.  Terror.  Uncertainty.  

“It’s temporary?”  Maria asks.

But Raslidor is shaking their head.  Feathers fluffing out along the sides of their face.  Tufts twisting to the left and right before pointing forward once more.  “No, they are cured of their current ailment.   _ This  _ is not what will kill them.  But the next one will.” 

“I don’t understand,” Eliza whispers. 

“Your... _ plague... _ is not a sickness at all,” the griffon explains.  

The words aren’t good enough for Maria.  They aren’t clear enough.  Her hand squeezes Eliza’s even harder.  Her voice becomes harsh and aggressive.  “Of  _ course _ it’s a  _ sickness, _ they were dying!” 

_ When is a plague not a plague?  _ Alexander had written, with his page shrouded in black ink. Physicians and alchemists had told her time and again that there was no cure.  Nothing could be done to stop it.  No research was provided.  Eliza head aches.  She presses a hand to it and she squeezes her eyes shut.  Breathe in, breathe out.   _ Think.  _

Raslidor patiently argues with Maria, but they do not provide any additional information.  They do not tell Maria what the ailment really was.  They do not explain further.  They just keep repeating that it’s not what a sickness.  Not a bug or a flu. 

“It’s magic,” Raslidor tells them.  “Any other illness would have killed them long before they arrived.  But you  _ did  _ arrive here.  And you did so because you managed the curse.” 

_ “What  _ curse?” Maria snaps. 

Eliza closes her eyes.   _ When is a plague not a plague?  _ There’s a black mark on Alexander’s book.  It doesn’t seep through the pages.  It shrouds the letters and words with black.  Shrouds them.  Shrouds.  

The drum beat of Eliza’s heart has begun again.  She pulls the memory back into focus.  Her hand on the page.  Tracing the ink splotch, turning the page backward and forward.  Examining it for its peculiarities.  Looking up to see...to see a wraith. 

A wraith who longed to drain the life from the living and use it to become alive again.  A wraith powerful enough to summon a storm and blow out their fire.  A wraith who had hunted them desperately through the night.  A wraith who had followed them to Mount Vernon.  Who’d only stopped chasing them when they became blind to its eyes.  Hidden behind crystals. 

She looks to Raslidor, and the griffon nods.  “A wraith’s call,” Raslidor confirms, still meeting Eliza’s eyes. 

“That’s impossible,” Maria whispers.  Her grip around Eliza’s hand is near bruising.  Eliza can feel her bones shifting within Maria’s grasp, but she does not dare pull away.  The feeling is grounding.  It holds her in place and it keeps her steady and calm.  Keeps her from crumbling under the weight of the horror that’s starting to build within her. “They both fell ill within the city, during the  _ day  _ even.  How could a wraith have affected them at all?” 

Eliza tries to remember the exact moment that Phil fell ill.  She’d been in her bedroom, trying not to allow the crushing depression overrun her.  Trying to accept the fact that she couldn’t argue for her right to stay in her own home because she was a woman, and therefore ineligible for such negotiation.  

There’d been a scream downstairs, and she’d run to see what was the matter.  But the sun had still be up.  The light had still been flooding the windows.  He’d crumpled to the floor and been frothing at the mouth.  They’d been the only ones in the house.  She, her children, sister, father, and the bankers.  She didn’t see anything else.  Nothing except the basement door open.  Cracked just a little because the children like to play down there. 

Where there’s darkness all the time and not a hint of light, unless they brought a candle with them.  She doesn’t remember any candles. 

Eilza brings her free hand to her mouth.  She’s going to be sick.  There’d been a  _ wraith  _ in her house.  A wraith close enough to try to steal away her son.  Maria keeps shaking her head.  Disbelieving. “There are fires around the city, crystals—Lady Washington said.” 

“Yes, but fire lines can be broken.  Crystals...temporarily removed.  Someone could help.  Someone on the other side.” 

“Who would help a wraith?” Maria asks. 

“Someone who knew who it was,” Eliza answer.  She tries to think.  Think about everything Maria’s told her.  It’s not the poor who are getting sick.  Not the whole country.  New York and Philadelphia.  The rich.  No.  Not just the rich.  Those who could prove that it wasn’t a normal illness.  Doctors who tried curing it, tragically dying.  Laundresses who may have heard or seen too much.  

Eliza had walked the streets of the city, seen how houses that had gone to prosperous families after the revolution were now up for sale as frightened residents fled.  Banks taking over mortgages—

“How many people were asked by the banks about their homes  _ prior  _ to the plague?”  Eliza asks Raslidor.  The griffon nods their head.  

“All of them.” 

All of them.  Of course.  “When they left, the banks received ownership of the houses…” Eliza tells Maria.  “It’s what they were trying to do with the Grange.” 

Her friend shakes her head. “No...no that doesn’t make any sense why would the bankers be working with a wraith?” 

“It’s not all of the banks,” Eliza replies slowly.  The puzzle is forming itself in her mind.  Pieces clicking back into place.  Clarity forming where before there had only been obscurity.  The men who had come to her door over and over, they’d been attempting to convince her to sell the Grange  _ prior  _ to any signs of defaultment.  Prior to any signs of trouble.  She had enough money to pay for the home for a short time, and she’d not missed a single payment.  

Their questions were seen as helpful.  As kind.  Them looking out for her because she clearly wouldn’t be able to manage it on her own.  Everyone assumed they’d been trying to do their best to do right by her.  But she their interest to be entirely contradictory to proper behavior.  Especially as she  _ was  _ Alexander Hamilton’s widow.  He created their banks.  They should have given her proper respect for her station. 

Instead...they’d pushed. 

“Wraiths aren’t known for their planning,” Maria argues.  “They seek vengeance.  Life.  Why would a wraith do any of this?” 

“For vengeance,” Raslidor replies.  “For life.” 

“Vengeance against _whom?_ Who exactly would want to team up with _bankers_ to take _revenge_ against...people who own houses?” Then, seeming to have no end of questions, Maria asks: “And what would a wraith want with a house anyway?”

_ Think,  _ Eliza commands herself.   _ Think.   _ Who had wanted the houses first?  If it was vengeance than whomever the wraith had been before death, he’d wanted the homes and felt slighted by them.  He’d felt personally affronted that the homes hadn’t been his.  Who had made enemies of who?  Not only that, but who had access to both Philadelphia  _ and  _ New York? 

It strikes like lightning.  “William Duer,” Eliza breathes out the name with full confidence.  Maria snaps her head about to stare at her.  Her mouth closes with an audible click.  “William Duer died in debtor’s prison after speculating with money that didn’t exist.  He wanted to buy up the real estate in New York as fast as he could, but he wasn’t managing the inflation properly.  He missed his calculations, and Alexander needed to step in and stop the financial crisis before it became worse.  Alexander refused to help him.  He died, destitute, in jail.” 

“Yes,” Raslidor nodded.  “He did.” 

She feels like a ball rolling down hill.  Starting off slow then picking up speed.  Faster and faster and faster she goes.  Thoughts all aligning with perfect clarity.  “William Duer became a wraith, a powerful one at that.  He must have materialized at some point.  Made contact with his family in New York.   _ They  _ broke the seal.” 

“But why take Susan?” Maria asks. 

Why indeed.  “Because he needed life, and she was there.” Eliza hazards.  Raslidor nods. 

“He’d grown weak, and he needed more.  A member of the working class, in his own home, would throw off any suspicion it was him.”

“But they gave me the map! They told me to come here!”

“Guilt?” Eliza hazards. “For having put you in such a position?” 

Maria’s expression turns enraged.  Furious and blood thirsty.  Her skin is darkening by the minute.  Nearly purple as her anger grows only more and more. Eliza knows exactly as she feels.  Her words spit from her mouth now, anger driving her forward.  “And all this time,” Eliza continues.  “He’s been killing people to get back what he thought was his.”

“The Grange was built after his death,” Maria tells her.  But she knows this.  Knows all about that. 

“But  _ Alexander  _ is the one who let him die.  Who turned his back on him because he was a scoundrel and a thief!” Eliza’s voice is raising.  She’s almost shouting.  She cannot remember a time when she’d been more livid.  A time when she’d been more upset about a situation or person.  For weeks she has watched her children suffer and die and it had been because  _ one  _ horrible man had decided to make an empire of trying to reclaim life after his flame had flickered out.  

There had been a shroud on Alexander’s page, a hasty flourish as he attempted to find the source of the plague.  And Eliza cannot help but ask, “Did he know?” Raslidor cocks their head to the side.  “Did he know it was Duer?  Or at the very least, a  _ wraith  _ causing the plague?”

“He knew when he died,” Raslidor replied calmly.  They stand now.  Stretching out their long limbs and arching their back so they can sit in a more comfortable position.  Towering over Eliza and Maria both.  “Your husband and Aaron Burr knew that they would need to meet.  Their duel could not be undone.  Once the gears were set into motion, they needed to keep turning.  Your husband, however, did fire his gun.”

“In the sky!” Eliza snaps.  She knows this story.  And her anger from Duer is driving her to be rash.  But Raslidor takes no offense.  Merely accepts the harsh tone and continues on undisturbed. 

“In the sky,” Raslidor tells her simply.  “But the sound of a gun causes a man to fright.  And Burr reacted at the noise.   _ Intent,  _ Lady Hamilton, is what we listen to.  And Burr’s intention was not to murder Alexander Hamilton.  When they turned at the count of ten, Alexander Hamilton had his pistol in the sky, and he saw a wraith above Burr’s body.  With the sun cast in the opposite direction and their seconds focused on  _ them,  _ not their surroundings, he was the only one who saw it.  A wraith bearing a resemblance to William Duer, made whole from the life he’d stolen not long ago.  He shot the wraith immediately, and in turn—Burr shot your husband, believing to have been fired upon.  The wraith vanished, and your husband suspected that with it—so too would the  _ plague _ end.

“Your husband’s bullet did aim true, he grievously wounded Duer, but mortal weapons are not enough to kill a wraith.  Not enough to send them over.  It only made his appetite stronger.  It made it so his need to steal the life of others grew.  Your... _ plague _ ...began in earnest after your husband’s death, and it’s precisely because of his death it was allowed to happen.  Duer lost the ability to appear mostly human...and he wanted it back.  He wanted his life back.” 

Eliza squeezed her eyes shut.  She tried to ration her breaths.  She tried to come to terms with the raging hatred she’d felt for Aaron Burr from the moment she discovered  _ he’d  _ killed her husband, and redirect it at something else.  Anyone else.  William Duer. 

The entire Duer family who had been assisting Duer with his scheme to act vengefully on those he perceived had wronged him.  Who had been prospering nicely in both Philadelphia and New York.  Relishing in the money that they felt was owed to them.  That they felt they deserved, and had been denied for so long. 

Stopped by Alexander Hamilton when he refused to pay Duer’s debts, and then nearly stopped again when Alexander shot the Duer wraith.  She squeezes her hand tight around Maria’s.  Makes a fist with the opposite. 

Rage, unbridled and unrestrained starts circulating through her bloodstream.  “How do you stop a wraith?” Eliza asks tightly.  She’s struggling to keep her tone level and even.  But there are families out there with children and loved ones suffering at this very moment, and it’s all because of William Duer’s  _ greed.  _

“You force them to move on,” Raslidor tells her.  “Something that you...have quite a talent for Lady Hamilton.” 

“It’s not just the wraith,” Maria says shortly.  “It’s everyone who helped him get away with it.  Who spread rumors of this  _ plague  _ so the people would be frightened.  So the bankers could take advantage in the first place.  The Duers may have profited from everything, but they weren’t the only ones.” 

No.  They weren’t the only ones.  Eliza closes her eyes.  Plots her course.  She can see now the trajectory she needs to take.  The course of action that’s going to lead her forward.  She knows what she needs to do and how to get there.  Only.  She needs help. 

When she opens her eyes, it’s to Raslidor bending their head low to the ground.  Almost in a bow.  “I will help you Lady Hamilton.  I will take you where you need to go.” 

“Go—?” Maria asks.  She blinks rapidly, turning to look at Eliza.  “Go where?” 

“President Jefferson,” Eliza replies.  “I’m going to Monticello.”


	27. Perfect Union

Unlike her husband, who had done nothing but loathe the ground Thomas Jefferson walked on from the moment they stepped into the political arena together, Eliza never hated the man.  In fact, she spent the majority of her time mitigating the potential fallout between every personal encounter Alexander had with him. They attended Jefferson’s parties, and she politely held her husband in check and kept him from being  _ too  _ absurd whenever their tempers started to flare over something entirely meaningless and inconsequential.

It didn’t stop Alexander from ruining his own reputation more thoroughly each time they attended, but it at least kept the peace during those moments.  Jefferson, Eliza found, had always been a man of complex ambiguities.  He liked playing the pauper farmer, and liked to believe himself a member of ‘the people’ rather than the aristocracy to which he was born. 

His opinions, though convoluted and often hypocritical, were generally understood from his own paradigm.  Alexander knew why Jefferson felt the way he did on every issue they argued about.  Alexander just could never agree with the man.  They hated each other, pure and simple.  A shame, because had they been able to overcome their obvious grandstanding, they could have done so much more for the country than either of their individual efforts had managed to eek out. 

Eliza had remained neutral in regards to Jefferson right up until the moment she learned whom Alexander had decided to duel that day.  She found it absurd that the President of their nation had no idea his  _ Vice- _ President had challenged her husband to a duel.  Absurd that he’d been shocked, or grieved, by the notion that Alexander had died.  And when punishment for Aaron Burr had been sorely lacking what she deemed appropriate, Eliza had been angry. 

Thomas Jefferson may have been friends with her sister, and even friends with Lafayette, but Eliza had no desire to speak with him cordially after her husband’s death.  Indeed, he’d never reached out to offer his condolences, and his vague statements in the papers about Alexander’s death had been wholly unsatisfactory.  

“Perhaps speaking to Jefferson isn’t the wisest idea?” Maria offers as they walk to the lake to bathe. 

Susan and Phil are both awake now.  Raslidor almost  _ cheerily  _ agreeing to keep an eye on them while their parents make themselves more presentable.  Both children are sluggish from sleeping for so long, and endlessly hungry.  They’ve eaten through most of the food on hand, and Eliza knows they will need to find more soon.  Still, they’re awake and they’re  _ talking  _ to each other. 

Susan has walked a few steps too.  Managing latent dizziness and a lingering weariness, determined to move around on her own volition.  She smiles so prettily that Eliza knows she takes wholly from her mother.   And she plays with Phil as though they’ve done this for years.  She holds out her hands and Phil toddles to her.  They sit side by side in the grass, and Susan shows him how to make daisy chains. 

The energy they have is uncompromising and it’s growing more and more with each passing second.  Eliza doesn’t want to see it end.  Not for one moment.  She doesn’t want to see their children die because William Duer realizes he’s missed his mark.  She doesn’t want to see another wraith chase them down and curse them again.  Force the remainder of their lives to slip away into a night terror’s store.  Duer lived his life.  He doesn’t get theirs. 

“I’m going to talk to Jefferson,” Eliza tells Maria stiffly, pulling at the buttons of her blouse and letting them fall to the side.  If she’s going to talk to the President of the United States, she’s going to look presentable.  As much as she wants to just appear as she is now, she has a firm understanding of propriety.  She’s not going to stop now.  “And if he doesn’t not like what I have to say, then I shall  _ make  _ him like it.”  Maria nods her head, tugging her own clothes off and settling them not far away. 

“Hamiltons and your pig-headedness,” she accuses. 

“You love us for it,” Eliza replies easily.  She dips a toe into the water.  It’s not  _ too  _ cold.  It’s surprisingly refreshing, actually.  Carefully striding forward, feet sliding through sand, she lets herself sink deep into the water.  Lets her body relax into the feeling of being completely surrounded and enveloped by the lake.  A liquid embrace that settles her to her core. 

“I do,” Maria replies after a moment.  Watching Eliza as she floats back further in the lake.  Staying afloat with a few strokes of her arms.  He voice sounds strange.  Dark and husky. But moments later, Maria’s in the water too. Slipping under before kicking up off the sandy bottom.  Head cresting, damp and beautiful.  Her dark hair lays plastered to her cheeks.  Curls straightening into awkward waves as they are dragged down by the water. 

Eliza bites her lip.  Treads water as she watches Maria blink droplets from her lashes.  As Maria tucks her bangs back behind her ears.  As Maria carefully finds her footing and looks right back at her.  

Words, words, words.  So many to choose from.  Infinite in their possibilities.  Eliza swims closer.  Stands within arms reach of her.  She knows they should be washing.  Knows they don’t have much time.  But the children are cared for, Raslidor will keep them safe, and they have precious few moments to actually speak in the privacy of their own space.  Where no one, save their eavesdropping griffon who already  _ knows  _ everything, can hear them. “Thank you,” Eliza says.  

Her body feels warm.  Warm despite the cool water that rises up to her shoulders. Teasing her collar bones with the slightest breath of air.  Warm.  But it means so much more than that.  She reaches her hand for Maria’s.  She wants to touch.  Her heart beats far too fast in her chest, and she long to do more.  Say more.  She’s caught though. 

Caught like a fish on a line.  Being drawn in by the fisherman.  Watching the sun shine down from beyond the break in the water.  Struggling futilely against the pull.  Breathe the fresh air for the first time.  Until she’s not sure if she’s fish or mermaid, half in or half out.  She leans her head forward, and Maria surges.

Their lips meet. 

Maria’s hand are in her hair.  On her hip.  She’s pulled forward so she’s pressed in tight against Maria’s body.  Eliza’s eyes flutter closed.  She loses her footing in the sand, but Maria holds her upright.  Holds her firm.  She catches her, and she doesn’t let her go. 

Maria’s breasts feel strange and foreign against Eliza’s.  She’s not used to the feeling, but she finds she likes it.  She wants to touch them.  Wants to feel how they sit in her hand.  Her mouth parts just a little, and Maria’s hand tightens in her hair.  Her tongue dives between her lips, and she’s being pulled in closer and closer. 

So close that Eliza half wonders if she will slip through Maria’s body.  Join her body and soul, nestle in and live in the space around Maria’s heart.  She loses her footing again, and Maria reaches down and cups her under her bottom, pulls her upwards so her legs stand on nothing, but her arms are wrapped around Maria’s shoulder, and slowly Maria’s encouraging her to wrap her legs around her too.  

She feels like a child again.  The first time she ever kissed a boy.  Blushing badly as he steals a kiss she hadn’t meant to give.  Rushing home to tell her sisters just what happened.  Peggy threatening to show him a thing or two, Angelica sly and curious.   _ Did you like it?  _ She’d been asked.  And all Eliza could think about was wanting to feel it more. 

More, more, more. 

Maria’s lips don’t leave hers.  They stay perfectly affixed.  Moving.  Pulsating.  The hand in her hair guides Eliza’s actions.  Press in, let off, open mouth and feel the exploration. Their limbs are intertwined and Eliza feels her body  _ burning.  _

They part only for a moment.  Breathing hard and ragged, brows pressing against each other.  Eliza’s hair is out of place, it hangs down around them, curtaining them in.  Hiding them from view.  Maria is looking up at her, still holding her firmly in place and not letting her go.  Strong capable arms managing her weight with expert talent. Eliza half wonders if she’s done this before.  

“Don’t stop?” Eliza whispers.  Maria adjusts her grip and walks her forward. They lay down on the beach.  Eliza’s back pressed against the sand, water still lapping at their bodies.  Maria lays down at her side, propping her head on her palm even as she drapes one leg over Eliza’s body.  She leans down and kisses Eliza again. 

Gently this time.  Very gently.  Tracing their lips together and breathing the same air as one another.  Their noses bump occasionally, and it’s nice.  It’s sweet.  Eliza doesn’t know what to do with her hands.  She doesn’t know where to put them. 

She wraps one around Maria’s waist, and the other….the other clings to Maria’s wrist.  Travels with it as her hand strokes along the sides of Eliza’s body.  Occasionally dipping back into the water to wash the wet sand off her fingers.  

Maria’s lips slide from hers.  Kiss her cheeks, her lashes, her brow.  They mouth at her throat. Descending lower and lower.  Over her breasts and to her nipples.  Suckingling on the one closest to her.  Eliza’s head tilts back.  She sucks in air, voice cracking along a gasp she hadn’t expected to feel. 

Her eyes roll back in her head and her back arches into the touch.  Still Maria’s fingers travel downward.  Stroke across her inner thigh, moving back up in a curving arc.  The tips of her fingers feel like flower petals.  Sliding soft and gentle along her skin. 

The wind blows the water up toward them, coating their legs just a little more.  They keep exchanging kisses.  Press into each other.  Maria’s fingertips slide in between her legs, and Eliza gasps true and proper.  Her vision turns white and she shoves at Maria’s wrist, desperate for more contact.  

Maria responds immediately.  She surges forward and her fingers slide inside.  Perfect and wonderful.  Their lips meet again.  It’s fast and it’s rough, and Eliza cannot remember the last time she’s felt this way about anything.  She holds onto Maria as tight as she can. 

And she feels like she’s flying. 

***

They do wash eventually. 

When their bodies stop singing.  When their skin is flushed pink with no fever except the fever pitch they’d fallen into.  When their lips still tingle, but their hands are clasped tight.  When Eliza looks at Maria and knows—she never wants this to end. 

They wash each other.  Maria careful with Eliza’s back, as if it still could hurt her.  Tracing over each scar like they still brought her pain.  She kisses them, now.  Kisses them to make them better, and Eliza sighs into the touch.  Smiles into the feeling.  She feels good.  So good.  Tension falls from her shoulders, disappearing beneath the waves. 

When it’s Maria’s turn, Eliza takes her time.  She kisses the dark skin and sighs into the curves of Maria’s body.  She noses at parts that are warm and interesting.  Things she longs to explore when they have more time.  When they can do things like exploring.  Eliza wants to lay her on her bed in the Grange.  Return every favor Maria gave her, and then smile as Maria lays boneless beneath her. 

She wants Maria’s happiness.  Wants her bliss and her contentment.  She settles for washing her.  Settles for rubbing a loose cloth along Maria’s limbs to dry her.  Settles for helping her redress.  For checking on her blisters that have long since become callouses.  Settles for one last kiss before they return to Raslidor and their children. 

They return, hand in hand.  Susan’s kneeling at Raslidor’s side, stroking feathery fur and braiding daisies around the feathers in an endless loop.  Phil is presenting a similar flower crown to Raslidor who inspects it with the utmost care.  Their beak presses against it, and there must have been excess pollen on the crown. 

Raslidor sneezes impressively, wind blowing Phil’s curls away from his face.  He stares at Raslidor like they’re the second coming, and giggles bright and vibrant.  Good health and good voice.  

He turns when he hears them approach.  And Eliza’s heart swells as her son pushes himself to his feet.   _ Runs  _ to her arms.  “Mama!” and jumps up to be held.  She catches him.  Hoists him through the air.  She holds him to her heart and she breathes him in.  

Susan stands slowly and makes their way over as well.  Maria wraps her arms around her and shares a look with Eliza.  Their families are safe for now.  For now. 

They’d spoken about what came next.  Maria wasn’t happy with it, but she couldn’t deny the logic.  From Raslidor’s patient waiting, Eliza’s confident that they overheard the discussion.  Understood their intent. 

“Philip, honey, you’re going to stay here with Maria for a little while, okay?” Eliza asks her son gently.  Phil looks up at her.  Nose scrunched a little as his lips twist in a frown.  Not quite a tantrum.  Not yet.  “I’ve got to take care of something, but Maria’s going to stay with you and you can play with her and Susan as much as you want.” 

“You’ll be back soon?” Philip asks her slowly.

“Yes, I’ll be back soon.”  She kisses his nose and gently settles him on the ground.  

“Our kin will stay with you in the wood,” Raslidor tells Maria.  “We’ll tell them to come.  You have nothing to fear during your stay at the Long Lakes.” 

“Thank you,” Maria replies.  

Eliza adjusts her clothes and meets Maria’s eyes.  “How do I look?” she asks.  She’s not in a proper dress. She’s not even fully dried.  But her hair will dry during the journey, and she doesn’t have anything except breeches and blouses.  The President will simply  _ have  _ to manage. 

“Unstoppable,” Maria tells her.  “Be safe…” 

Eliza nods.  She longs to give Maria another kiss.  Even leans forward to do so, but she hesitates at the last minute.  Kisses the corner of Maria’s mouth instead.  Every cognizant that their children are standing just there.  But Maria catches her by the hip.  Returns the kiss properly.  Susan doesn’t so much as blink.  Philip has returned to playing with the flowers.  Neither care.  “You Ladies and your thoughts,” Maria teases her.  “Breathe,” she’s reminded. “And be safe.” 

Eliza nods again.  Mumbles a careful farewell, and then goes to mount Raslidor.  She carefully settles above the wings, just like she’d been instructed, and with a few galloping strides, the griffon kicks up off the ground bursts into the sky.  

Raslidor’s voice echoes between her ears.  They’ll be at Monticello in a matter of hours.  


	28. President Jefferson

When Eliza was fifteen years old, her father attended a ball at Henry Laurens’ estate.  He’d gone for a political excursion, and needed to discuss business with the man.  John had already been shipped to Europe by that point, and so Eliza had never met him.  The ball itself hadn’t even been an important affair.  Not in the grand scheme of life.  But she’d gone along with her father anyway.  Angelica already starting to eye the men and deciding which one could be a suitable candidate for husband, Peggy plotting her next act of mischief. 

Their mother had dressed them each in fine clothes.  Freshly sent over from the continent.  Eliza’s hair had been brushed and combed back neatly.  Her nails were scrubbed clean.  Her face was powdered to hide the blemishes all teenage girls have.  Her mother leant her a shimmering pearl necklace.  Slide earrings into her ears.  A bracelet for affect.  She was handed a fan and told to behave, and then she was dragged in front of the most powerful man in the colonies. 

Henry Laurens owned more wealth than Eliza ever dared to dream of.  He sat in a place of political superiority, and he peered down his nose at Eliza.  She curtsied low and polite.  She held her tongue and kept her face pleasant and cordial.  She didn’t tell him that the serving staff seemed miserable.  That his interest in slavery made her stomach turn.  That he had a shrewd look about him. 

The ball itself was quite dull.  There were few children her age, and the boys that did attend seemed far more interested in chasing her skirt than engaging in conversation.  Angelica promptly called them all ninnies, and she took Eliza by the arm.  They walked the grounds for some time, lamenting how boring it all was. 

Around that time, they found Peggy chatting with one of the boys.  He tried to get handsy with her, and she’d responded by punching him clear in the nose.  Blood splattered everywhere and he recoiled badly enough that he didn’t know what to do.  Angelica and Eliza framed their younger sister and snapped at him to leave now.  He did so, but not before drawing attention from himself from a neighboring group of party-goers.  They all immediately spotted the blood, and for a moment their drama was the focus on the party. 

Their father stood on one side of them, while Laurens stood on the other, and they demanded to know what occurred.  The boy quickly attempted to say that he head made a mistake, had fallen and had made a fool of himself, but Peggy wouldn’t be cowed.  She stated firmly exactly what he’d done, and how she’d needed to strike him like the scoundrel he was. 

The boy demanded that she cease such a troubling rumor, but Angelica and Eliza had stood at their sister’s side.  Had insisted that she’d spoken the truth.  Had called him a scoundrel and demanded recompense.  And when their father had stood beside them, asking Laurens what kind of hooligans he’d let into his house, Laurens had gracefully stepped back and wrought justice upon the boy.  

The fight and argument were quickly swept to the side and the party continued as if it had never been interrupted.  The boy’s parents dragged him from the venue and Eliza’s father told them it was best if they went on up to bed.  They didn’t offer much protest, and they looped their arms together.  Waltzing from the room. 

Once they’d been cosseted away, Peggy proudly revealed the cakes and desserts she’d pilfered into her shawl before they left.  Spreading it out before them so they could feast on crumb cake while the adults continued to prance about down stairs.  Intoxication spiralling about their bodies in a disgusting fashion. 

In the morning, the boy’s parents offered their father a formal apology, and it was agreed that the boy’s reputation would not be harmed by the event.  A lie was made up, he’d hurt himself  _ defending  _ a woman’s honor, not attempting to take it by force himself.  Their father had told them the boy had learned a valuable lesson and he was unlikely to repeat his antics again. And they watched as the boy was congratulated for his bravery. 

Eliza’s first step into public life had been marred by three simple truths that carried her through.  One: Politicians enjoyed flaunting their wealth, but they never knew what to do with it once they had it.  Two: There are rules in public life that must be followed at all times, and if someone breaks out of that mold—it startles them into either complacency or violence.  Three: to survive in politics, one must know how to lie.  And do it better than anyone else in the world.  And more than that, they needed to be able to get away with it.  No matter how many bribes they needed to offer to make it stick. 

Thomas Jefferson is a master at all three.  Monticello sits as a pinnacle of his brilliance.  His intense studies in architecture had given him a very crisply designed building.  A great wall surrounded the grounds and there is no shortage of slaves tending the the grounds within.  They look up as Raslidor flies over.  Some shout in terror, and some start running. 

Eliza feels bad about frightening them. 

She does not feel bad about frightening Jefferson himself.  The lord of his manor, Thomas Jefferson is sprawled out on a chaise in his garden, fine drink in hand, book on his lap, and meal placed on a low table by his seat. He is dressed in fine clothes.  Clothes that Eliza know for a fact he would never wear in public as they detracted from his façade of  _ gentleman farmer _ . 

He’s a tall man.  6’2” in height.  His hair is long and bushy, his teeth perfectly straight and glistening white.  He smiles with all of them.  Leeres at things from the corner of his eye.  He’s a man who is both graceful and domineering.  One who is perfectly comfortable in his skin and  _ knows _ what that confidence can do to someone. 

He plays the perfect host at all times, and despite his hatred of Alexander—did continue to invite him to parties.  If only to mock him on a personal stage, but it had been an invitation none the less.  One that Alexander never needed to answer to, but her husband had a bad habit of always taking the bait. 

Eliza had no intentions of taking the bait for anything.  She has no intentions of letting Jefferson get under her skin.  She’s rehearsed her speech and their story for the entire flight.  Discussed battle plans and tactics to answer each one of Jefferson’s protests or admonishments.  She is not a child seeking a parent’s approval.  She is not a wife begging leniency for her husband. 

She is here to make a request of the most powerful man in the country, and she fully intends to succeed in her quest.  Jefferson has what she needs—legal authority to act.  And more than that...she has what she needs to save her family from ever needing to struggle with this again.  

He sits ups when they land, mouth falling open and legs spreading the chaise.  One foot on either side.  He stares at Raslidor like he cannot quite fathom what he’s seeing, and Eliza takes the opportunity to slide from Raslidor’s shoulders and land softly on the ground.  The President of the United States takes his time in even noticing she’s there. 

She doesn’t blame him. 

Raslidor is gorgeous. 

“Sir,” she greets firmly, and finally, Jefferson’s eyes drop to her face.  It takes him a moment.  A long moment, to put face to name.  When he does, he’s scrambling to his feet and is striding to meet her halfway.  He loiters awkwardly before her, hands in the air.  He doesn’t seem sure whether he should embrace her or leave her be.  

It’s good.  She wants him unsettled.  “Mr. President, sir, I’d like to speak with you about a matter of grave importance.” 

“E-L- _ Widow  _ Hamilton, what is—” The man stops.  Shakes his head, and then straightens his spine.  “Can I offer you something to drink?” he asks, even as he turns on his heel and returns to his chaise.  There’s a bottle of fine wine there and he does indeed pour himself a glass.  She waits.  Patient.  He drinks it all in on swallow and then returns to staring at her like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real. 

“I do not want a drink, I wish to speak to the President of this nation, and I expect him to attend to me as is befitting a man of his station.”  Jefferson’s eyes narrow immediately at her sharp words.  Settling him out of his shock, at the very least, and pulling him more firmly to his senses. 

“I had not been aware you requested an audience,” he demures.  This is a dance she knows well.  One that she’s trained for all her life.  She may have played the other part.  May have danced as a follower rather than a leader, but she knows full well how to switch her role.  Knows how to move forward instead of backwards.  Knows how to walk the room and do so with her head high.  

“You would not have been  _ made  _ aware,” she tells him.  “It’s all been very recent.” 

Thomas Jefferson smooths a hand over his purple coat.  He straightens his shirt and he nods his head toward her.  Finally, after what seems to have been at least five minutes, some men have arrived with guns as if they intended to fight off this intruder.  Jefferson tells them to stand down, and that it’s hardly necessary.  If anything he looks more than a little annoyed by their presence. 

Eliza hopes that they continue to annoy him further.  Raslidor laughs, chuckling fondly and slowly settling so they’re sitting proud by Eliza’s side.  “What is it that you wished to speak to me about?” Jefferson asks once he sends his men back wherever they belonged. 

“The plague.”  Jefferson’s posture shifts.  His mouth twists. 

“I understand that you may be concerned about the—”

“—It’s not a plague.” The man sighs and runs a hand through his hair.  He steps toward her.  Politician’s smile on his face.  She’s uninterested in his lies and excuses.  Uninterested in whatever he thinks he can conjure up to make her believe him.  She’s here to complete a single solitary purpose.  And she has no desire to tiptoe around that purpose. “It’s a wraith call.” 

Finally at long last, Jefferson seems to be ready to listen.  The smile slips off once more.  Mercurial as always.  He examines Eliza from head to toe.  Glances back at Raslidor.  Returns his gaze to her poor attire and lack of appropriate mannerisms. 

“Tell me what you know,” he entreats. 

So she does. 

Eliza tells him everything.  She reminds him about Duer and his death in prison.  She tells him about their suspicions of just what Duer became after death, and the evidences that they’ve accumulated.  She tells him about her husband and Aaron Burr’s duel.  She tells him about Raslidor’s testimony as to what  _ truly  _ happened that day.  She tells him about the books and the shroud within Alexander’s pages.  Tells him about the houses that were targeted, all originally owned by Duer or his connections during their speculative era.  She tells him about the deaths and the exchange of money. 

Tells him about the basement door and the easy way a wraith could slip in and out.  How Duer targeted her family because of Alexander.  How he targeted Susan to keep his family from seeing suspicious.  How he tried desperately to kill them both anyway.  How he chased her and Maria and their children from New York to Virgina, and everything that happened from there on out. Leaving out only the intimate moments she’d shared with John Laurens and Rachel the laundress. 

She kept her story to the point, and she offered no details that he would find scandalous or fascinating upon later examination. 

“My God,” Thomas murmurs once she’s finished her story.  He reaches for another glass of wine, and this time he pointedly presses it into Eliza’s hand.  “Please sit,” he requests as he signals for food and drink to be brought to them.  The slave he’d beckoned scurries off.  “What is it that you want from me, Widow Hamilton?”

“I want you to send your men to New York and Philadelphia and arrest all of those responsible for this.  For working with and profiting from a  _ wraith’s  _ desire to seek revenge.”  Eliza requests firmly.  Jefferson nods slowly but with great consideration.  He looks down at his own wine glass and spins the fluid about. 

“I’ll need physical evidence that this is Duer,” he tells her.  Voice calm and collected.  “I cannot send an army to arrest a family for profiting from tragedy.” 

This, Eliza thinks, would be the moment her husband would start screaming.  Would stand on a table and shout for all the world to see that Jefferson was a brainless oaf.  Couldn’t he tell that time was of the essence?  Couldn’t he understand that lives were at stake?  He and the President would devolve into quibbling, never to get anything done. And from the slightly pensive expression on Jefferson’s features, Eliza has no doubt believing that he assumed she’d react much the same way.  

But she’s not her husband.  And she had a three hour flight from the Long Lakes to discuss this very concern with Raslidor.  “I can show you,” she tells Jefferson.  Taking a careful sip of her wine, she lets the fluid fill her mouth.  Fruity and sweet.  She likes the flavor.  Her last taste of wine felt as if it had come from years ago.  She doesn’t remember what it was.  This, though.  This keeps her steady.  Keeps her firm.  

Maria will be furious when she finds out, but that’s fine.  Better to ask forgiveness. 

“Show me?” Jefferson questions. 

“Even if we arrest Duer’s family, it does nothing to stop Duer’s wraith.  If I can show you Duer’s wraith, summon him here and have him before you— will you believe my story and send your men to New York and Philadelphia to assist the sick and collect the wicked?” 

“If it is truly Duer, then there would be enough reasonable doubt for me to orchestrate such a thing.  But summoning a wraith...that is no easy task.  And I had not known you were a charmer?” He’s being polite.  Just barely avoiding calling her a ‘hexer’ or a ‘witch.’

Eliza takes another sip of her wine and settles it on the table.  “I’m not, but Raslidor has offered to assist us in ridding ourselves from Duer’s wraith.”

Jefferson’s brow furrows once more.  Eliza almost feels bad for this.  Almost feels bad for interrupting his day.  For barging in unannounced to make orders and demands of him.  But after everything he’d done to her husband, and by virtue of his position as the leader of their country, she finds she cannot bear to think too long on his discomfort. 

She stands with her back tall and she waits him out.  Waits for him to say something, to spin an excuse, to offer another protest or challenge.  

He makes none. 

He nods his head, and he waves his hand, and welcomes her to summon a wraith to Monticello.  What have they got to lose? 

Feeling as though her heart as about to burst, she contains all of her anxiety and excitement deep within her body.  She smiles placidly, like a Lady, and says “Excellent.  Do you have a smith I could use?”

There’s work to be done. 


	29. The Wraith and the Widow

Night falls over Monticello, and Eliza stands alone outside the gates.  Jefferson had balked at the idea.  Had immediately told her it was dangerous and that she should not put herself in such a compromising position, but she had asked him if he wanted proof of Duer’s duplicity.  If he wanted proof that he had become a wraith and was terrorising the countryside.

The President blanched at her question.  Had told her that her resolve was admirable, but he still couldn’t, in good conscious, allow her to put herself at risk.  Raslidor stood tall at Eliza’s side and flared their wings proudly.  Screeching an unholy screech so loud that it created a flurry of air.  Blowing Jefferson’s hair back out of his face and blowing his eyes wides.  He stared in a mixture of shock and horror at the griffon.  But he kept any future complaints to himself.

Eliza stepped out of the gates, and she stood alone.  Raslidor lying in the trees not far away.  Watching her.  On the wall, Eliza could feel Jefferson’s eyes on her back.  He’d petitioned his men to line the wall, burning arrows and muskets at the ready.  The measure was absurd.  It did _nothing_ to make her feel better.  Not only would the shots never reach her in time, even if they _did,_ they would be just as likely to hit her as they were to hit Duer.

The men are insistent on it, however.  They tell her it’s for her own safety.  Raslidor assures her that they will not allow the men to strike her down on accident.  It’s the only relief she feels.  Standing out in the open like this, exposed and in more willful danger than she’d particularly care to be in, Eliza cannot help but imagine Maria shouting at her for being stupid again.

For rushing back into the thick of things.  Perhaps she’s more like her husband than she thought. _Unlike your husband,_ Raslidor’s voice echoes within her head.  She flinches.  Surprised.  The griffon hasn’t spoken all day, but now her thoughts feel as though they’ve mingled and merged as one.  She looks toward the griffon who seems merely amused by her shock.   _Unlike your husband,_ Raslidor begins again.   _You actually had a plan should things not go your way.  Perhaps it’s time you stopped comparing yourself to him, and start realizing that you can stand on your own without him? Afterall...he’s not the one who intentionally fought a wraith.  You are._

Eliza closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.   _I am,_ she thinks.   _I am._  The sun descends from the horizon.  The night doesn’t start it’s howling.  Not yet.  There’s a dull sense of anticipation.  Ratcheting up higher and higher.  Faster with each passing moment.  Each minute that passes is another minute where the darkness rises and the moonlight gets overcome by shadows.

She has no crystals.  Nothing that blind her from view.  But her back bears the mark of Duer’s last attack.  Her body still holds its scars.  With Maria, Susan, and Philip safe at the Long Lakes, she is the only one that Duer can see.  That Duer can hunt.

 _He’ll come for you,_ Raslidor had told her.  All knowing and wise.  Listening to every voice and every thought in the world.  Sifting through the meaningless nonsense so that they could understand the true intent behind Duer’s plan.   _He wants you dead._

It’s a strange feeling, being on someone’s kill list.  It feels odd, knowing that someone wants _her_ dead.  Knowing that she used to bring William Duer a basket of apples from the garden.  Knowing that she had dined with his family.  Had sent him her felicitations at the birth of his children.  Had laughed by the fire as he shared stories with Alexander.

They’d been friends once.  His family had known hers for years.  Her father had recommended him to Alexander.  And yet, here they were.  Waiting alone in the dark.  Standing in anticipation of a conflict generated solely by greed and hatred.

Something flutters in front of her.  A black cloak that shimmers into view.  A shroud of the dead.  Torn along the edges.  A hole over the chest where Maria had stabbed him.  A bullet in the skull where her husband had shot him.  William Duer’s wraith is worn and ragged.  But he screeches all the same.  Boney visage coming into view.

Eliza takes a deep breath.  Her hand closes around the hilt of the blade she’d requested Jefferson smith for her.  Her mind races with instructions she’d been given time and again.  Words she knew she had to say, and more than that—words she _wanted_ to say.  She wanted to speak to the William Duer she knew.

She wanted to see him for who and what he really was.  “I know who you are,” she tells the wraith.

It floats closer to her.  It has no body.  Just a floating form that hovers over the air and slides across the ground.  Closer and closer.  Black sockets boring into her soul.  She can hear Raslidor whispering in her ear.  She can feel her breath catch.  The terror of wraiths that has driven her since his first attack still lurks bone deep.

She’ll carry that with her until the end of her life.  It’s a fact she knows that she will need to accommodate.  No matter the outcome, no matter the joy of winning or the thrill of success, she knows that it will never shake loose the memory of that first night in the woods.  Where he tore her apart, where he nearly killed her son, where he _did_ kill Holly.

How _dare_ he kill her horse.

“I know who you are,” she repeats. Duer raises one bony hand and aims it at her throat.  She can feel her throat tightening.  Can almost feel the fingers themselves wrapping about her neck.  Coiling along her skin and compressing so tight.  There are words she knows a braver person would say.   _I am not afraid of you.  I am better than this.  You will not hurt me._ But they are lies.  They are statements that she cannot make.  Finds no truth or comfort in any of it.  She  instead says what she _does_ have faith in.  What she knows she will hold onto, because nothing else is right.  Nothing else is proper.  “I am not letting you kill me,” she tells him with the last remaining strength of her breath.

Her fingers tighten around the handle of her knife, and Duer’s wraith-y screeches fill the air.  He flies directly toward her.  Black shroud fluttering in the wind.  She feels her body trembling.  Anxiety pinwheeling directly into terror.  His skull is nearing.  Alexander’s bullet hole still gouging out a chunk of his brow.  Her husband always did have good aim.

But not as good as hers.

Duer flies toward her.  Jefferson shouts for his men to be at the ready, but it’ll be too late.  Eliza’s heart skips a beat.  She slashes her arm up, pulling her talon claw knife with her.  The griffon talon slashes clear through the wraith’s body.  Everything bursting in a cloud of black ash.

Eliza clings to the knife as hard as she can, turning her head away as the ash floats over her.  As the wind blows it past her.  When she finally dares to open her eyes, the skeletal figure of the wraith is gone.  Instead, lying on the ground, one hand clutching his heart, is the very ghostlike visage of William Duer.

Eliza hears Jefferson leaning over the wall.  Hears his voice levying commands.  She doesn’t look back.  Doesn’t dare take her eyes off of Duer.  Instead, she stares down at him.  Rations her breaths.  Tries to calm herself.  She can be tense and scared and shaky in her room later.  She can be nervous and unsettled later.

Right now, she needs to act.  Right now, she holds the knife in her hand and she feels Raslidor slowly approaching from behind.  No longer afraid to be seen.  Perfectly willing to tear Duer apart if he tried anything.  He won’t try anything.  “Griffon talons cure all ailments,” Eliza recites.  “And can even turn a wraith...back into a ghost.”

“You bitch,” Duer hisses.  Eliza flinches at the word.  She’s still trying to get her breathing under control.  Still trying to push back the anxiety.  She squeezes the hilt of her knife to tight her knuckles crack.  Her wrist aches.

There’s a faint smell of sulfur in the air.  She can taste it on her tongue.  Bitter and acidic.  “You tried to kill my son,” she accuses.

Duer rises up.  Lunges for her, but she slashes at him again.  This time, when he is struck, he screams in agony.  Light is streaming from the tear she’s made across his body.  He flickers in and out of reality.  

When they flew to Monticello, Eliza asked Raslidor why they didn’t set John’s ghost free.  If griffons could lay souls to rest, why had they let John continue his death march.  Raslidor had responded, _We don’t put their souls to rest.  We give them oblivion.  And John Laurens deserved so much more than oblivion._

Duer doesn’t.  

He screams and howls, and Eliza attacks with one final swipe.  She puts Duer’s soul to rest, and she ends his reign.  His wraith’s call is broken, and all those bound by his attempts have been set free.

She can feel it.  Like a shift in the air.  The moment he flickers out, flashing white light as he finally makes his last screaming descent into nothingness, she can feel his pull disappear.  Her back feels lighter.  Her chest doesn’t compress as deeply.  She turns and she looks up to Jefferson.  The President of their nation looks down.  

“I want a message sent to Philadelphia and New York,” he says stiffly to the man standing beside him.  “Find me every member of the Duer family and their associates.”

“Yes Mr. President,” the man replies.

Eliza’s hand is still locked around her knife.

 _We won,_ Raslidor thinks in her head.  They’ve taken great care not to let on to Jefferson that they can speak.  They’re going to keep it that way.   _It’s over._

“Not yet,” Eliza replies.

There’s still more work to do.

***

Thomas Jefferson fetches Eliza food and water.  He provides her with a blanket and a warm room.  Offers her lodging for the night.  She accepts it.  But only when Raslidor can fit through the doorway.  Can curl up by the fire with her.  Wings folded along their back with their great head resting heavy on her thighs.  She shivers in the dark, petting Raslidor’s head and stroking the ever so fine fur that coats their feathers.

Jefferson stops by to deliver the food himself, deigning to kneel and press a glass of brandy into her hand.  “You’re a brave woman, Elizabeth Hamilton,” Jefferson tells her.  Eliza doesn’t tell him the knife is still sitting at her side.  That she doesn’t think she’s going to go to sleep tonight.  That all she wants is to be in Maria’s arms.  Knowing for sure that Susan and Philip are alive and well.  That nothing has changed.  That they’re all okay.

“By the time you reach New York, we’ll have managed all of this.  The Duers will be arrested.  We’ll have a trial.  Find them guilty.  The homes they stole, will be returned to the ones who lost them.”  Jefferson makes promises like he has the power to enforce any of it.  But she supposes he does.  He’ll influence the courts to put things right, and the people will not stand for the Duers to be let off easily.

“Don’t let them become wraiths this time,” Eliza tells him stiffly.  “He died in debtor’s prison.  A priest should have been called to ferry his soul and to provide last rights.  This never should have happened to begin with.”

Jefferson winces, but he does not argue.  He agrees with her instead, and she finds that as long as he keeps on agreeing, he’s quite manageable.  She wishes he acted a tad more diplomatic in the past.  It could have saved them all a great deal of trouble.  Lord knows she might have managed to get some sleep at night, instead of having to wander about in search of her foolish husband pacing because he couldn’t get the thoughts out of his head.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Widow Hamilton?”  He’s being polite.  Polite and prefunctionary, and that’s fine.  It’s all fine.  Eliza drinks down the rest of her brandy and turns to meet his eyes.

“I want my husband’s pension,” she tells him firmly.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, she’s stunned the man.  He stares at her, blinking rapidly as he tries to change gears and understand precisely what she’s saying.  She doesn’t give him time to pause and ruminate.  She states her case.  In small words, lest he pretend to not understand.  “He fought for this country during the revolution, and he accepted no pay.  He served as Treasury Secretary, and he halved his salary in order to improve the government’s revenue.  He fought again in _two_ more conflicts, not receiving pay at any point.  He died a General in this army, and he never received a single cent for his efforts.”  

She took a deep breath and straightened her spine so that with him kneeling before her, she rose above.  “I want my husband’s pension.  I want my house to stay in my name.  And I want the bankers to never come to my door asking me to sell it ever again.”

Jefferson’s jaw worked.  First to the left and then to the right.  He seemed to be rolling his tongue about his mouth.  As if the words were a garbled mess and he couldn’t work out which he wanted to say first.  “There are...many challenges in freeing up those funds for such an extended period of time.”

“Challenges you saw no trouble overcoming when you made your Louisiana Purchase.  When you ensured that _your_ monuments and houses could be constructed for _your_ government.  When you allotted yourself a salary, and you enjoyed the frivolities that came with it.”

The President runs a hand along his coat and hems and haws for a moment.  She is unmoved.  She is indomitable.  She stares at him, unblinking.  Fits of anxiety once more put on hold because this is more important than that.  Finally, at long last, he forced his head into a curt nod.  “It’s...no less than you deserve,” Jefferson agrees slowly.  As if the words were pulled from him by a tight fist around his throat.

“It’s _far_ less than I deserve,” Eliza corrects.  “But I will hold you to your word as a gentleman.  As _my President.”_  Jefferson nods curtly.

“I’ll see to it.” She glances at Raslidor.  The griffon nods slowly.  Jefferson’s intent is clear.  He’s not lying.

“And you will also see to it that the griffons at the Long Lakes are not disturbed.” Now, the man’s face tightens.  His nose wrinkles and his shoulders turn stiff.

“Widow Hamilton—”

She raises a hand in the air and speaks over him.  She will not be cowed.  “They helped us because they were given the choice to help.  If this happens again, if someone else seeks out their care, and you have made an enemy of the griffons through your own stupidity, then you’ve directly done harm to the very people you claim to want to protect.  Leave the Long Lakes alone.”

At her side, Raslidor shifts.  Twists their head to watch as Jefferson attempts to come up with an appropriate response.  He gives one, grudgingly.  Nodding his head.  “I will do my best to keep it off the table, but I have no control over what happens in the future.  I will not be President forever.”

“That’s all I can ask of you...that’s all I _will_ ask of you.”  He’s done everything she’s wanted.  Everything she’s needed.  He nods, seemingly grateful for the opportunity to flee before he’s bound to another agreement.  Standing up, he bids her good night and awkwardly does the same to Raslidor.  Hurrying from the room without another word.

The moment the door clicks shut Eliza crumbles forward.  She squeezes her eyes closed and Raslidor settles back into her lap.  Letting her hug their head.  “Okay,” Eliza tells them. “Okay.  I’m done now.  I want to go home.” Raslidor doesn’t say anything in response, but that’s the beauty about someone who listens.  They don’t have to.


	30. Heart's Home

Raslidor flies Eliza back to the Long Lakes in the morning. There, Eliza meets four other griffons that had come to spend time with Maria, Susan, and Phil while they waited for her. One was an adult like Raslidor, but the three others were small. One so tiny they fit snugly in Eliza’s arms. Phil could wrap his whole body around them.

Maria pulls her to her chest the moment she lands. Cups her face between her palms and looks her over. Tries to find the scars that Eliza’s most likely hidden, or the injuries that have accumulated. Eliza smiles at her. “I’m fine,” she promises. “I was perfectly safe.”  
“You’re a rotten liar, Lady,” Maria tells her. She kisses her, then hugs her tight. “Is it done then?”

“It’s done. The President will see to everyone’s arrests, Duer has been sent away forever, and the wraith’s call is over. Anyone still alive who was sick will slowly feel better. They’re all going to be all right.”

And more importantly, Eliza steps around Maria’s body. Philip throws himself into her arms. Strong legs pushing him up in an impressive leap. He hugs her close and chatters. Chatters with his sweet little voice that she’s longed to hear for so long. “I went flying! I went flying on Sarisse and Miss. Maria held me and we touched the clouds, and I wanna go again, can we please can we?”

Susan is grinning brightly and she cheerily gives a tale of her own. Telling her how she and Philip went swimming. How they built a sand castle and the beavers came over to inspect it. How they caught fish and ate them over a fire. How the night stayed quiet, and they didn’t need the fire ring. The griffons watched over them and protected them the whole while.

Their enthusiasm was unbelievable. Their excitement addicting. Eliza finds it so easy. Chase her son around the sandy beaches. Splash in the water with her daughter. Pick leaves from Susan’s hair as Maria straightens Philip’s shirt. Hold them both and wish them all the happiness in the world.

“Are you ready to go home?” she asks Phil. He’s petting the baby griffon and giggling as it purrs and chirps at once. Fluffy tail swishing back and forth as tiny talons flex and bend.

“Yes,” he replies. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t let himself get too attached to the pretty creature curled against his body. “I miss everybody.” Eliza hugs him close. She hasn’t dared to think about Angie or Will, Junior or Lizzie, John or James. She longs to see each one of her children. Longs to see their precious faces and hold them safe in her arms. “Can I still play with Susan?” he asks.

“Anytime you’d like,” Eliza promises. There’s a lot Maria and her need to go over and talk about. But that promise she longs to keep. Phil seems more than contented with that, and he stands up, holding the baby griffon under its front legs and toddling over to Susan. The baby’s back legs dragging along the ground as he walks.

She’s contented to watch them interact. To watch them pet and stroke the baby under the older griffons’ watchful eyes. Raslidor curled around Sarisse, grooming them with obvious joy. When Maria settles back at her side, pulling her close, Eliza melts into the embrace. “I missed you,” she admits softly.

“Me too,” Maria whispers back. “Things’ll be different when we get back to New York.” Life is always different in New York. There are classes and hierarchy. Prejudices and poor judgement. Cruelty that has no place in the world. All of it centered in a few city blocks.

Eliza takes Maria’s hand in hers and she strokes her thumb over her knuckles. “I want you to live with us at the Grange.”  
The arms around Eliza’s body stay loose and languid. The chest beside her own continues breathing. But Maria’s eyes are wide and her lips purse, and Eliza talks over any reaction she may be having. “The Duer’s were responsible for your child’s pain. You have no home of your own. We have room a plenty. When I spoke with the President, he agreed to release Alexander’s pension to me. The Grange will be mine, and I will have the means to pay for it and our family.”

“Our family,” Maria echoes.

“You and Susan and my own children. Our family.”

Maria’s mouth falls open, but she speaks no more. She just looks at Eliza, stunned. “I want to see you every day. I want to hold you. I missed having you by my side at Monticello. I do not want to feel that way again. I do not want to be apart from you. And should this affection die...then it ends. But I have no desire to push you away or leave you alone when it is in my capacity to continue to hold you close if that’s what you wish for.”

“I’m not what your neighbors will want to see. What your family will want to see. I slept with your husband,” Maria reminds uselessly.

Eliza’s thought about it for some time. She had three hours of flying time to think about it. Three hours of Raslidor eavesdropping on her thoughts and offering occasional bits of advice. Three hours to come to terms with what exactly she even wanted from Maria. If it was something she wanted in the long run.

Her sister...would need convincing. Angelica had been furious with Alexander when the affair had became known, and she’d had nothing nice to say about Maria in all the days since. They’d never met, but reputation alone would mean Angelica had an opinion set in stone. But stone could be eroded. It could be smoothed out. It could be shaped and warped into a new image.

Given enough time, Eliza knows full well that her sister will come around. Will accept their arrangement and their decision. Will support her. Eliza wishes Peggy were still alive. Peggy not only would have supported Maria, but she would have happily spent her days with Maria. Chatting about all of the things they had in common. Relishing in the bravery that Maria so easily displayed. Begging her for stories and tips.

“You would have loved my little sister,” Eliza tells her. Maria’s lips twitch. It’s not an answer to her concern. But somehow she feels as though Maria understands. Perhaps, like the griffons, they’re starting to understand each other’s thoughts. Their intentions. “I will manage my family. I will handle the neighbors. I will bear that burden, if you will do me the honor of bearing mine. Please...I want you to stay with me.”

Maria bites her lip. But nods her head. “Okay,” she says slowly. Accent thick. “Let’s give it a shot.”  
Eliza has no intentions of throwing it away.

***

The journey back to New York is slow and time consuming. Raslidor escorts them to the edge of the Long Lakes, accepts hugs and kisses from the children. Nuzzles both Maria and Eliza politely. They sit crouched, talons digging into the ground happily. The talons Raslidor had freely given during their time at the Long Lakes have already started to re-grow. Fresh black claws are starting to peek out amongst fur coated feathers. It will take time, but soon each talon they’d shed will have been like they’d never lost it.  
Eliza is allowed to keep her knife.

She thanks the griffon, down to the bottom of her heart. There are not words enough. But Raslidor merely tells her that they’d like to see her again. That she and her family will always be welcome to join them at the Long Lakes. They’re even encouraged to take a handful of feathers with them for good fortune in their lives. Susan and Phil both promise to return, and Eliza imagines they will have many, many, adventures when they grow older. She hopes they enjoy them all.

Riding Martha’s horses back to Mount Vernon, Eliza finds the journey happening so much faster. They take turns riding the horses. Susan and Phil both enjoy running and walking about. They skip and take turns chasing each other before they grow weary and switch for their parents. It makes things more difficult at times, but neither Eliza nor Maria have the heart to tell them to stop.  
Both children are ecstatic with their health. They cling to it with the steadfast determination of the newly healthy. They tell jokes and they tease each other. Susan tickles Phil’s sides and he calls her his ‘sister’. She calls him her ‘brother’. They’re family. At the end of the line, they’re family.

It takes almost a week to arrive at Mount Vernon, but once there— Martha bursts with glee. She throws them a party and they bathe and join her feast. Eliza relishes in the chance to dress Maria in beautiful clothes. She slides the smooth fabric over Maria’s body and grins when she feels Maria arch into the touch.

They find an alcove where just the two of them can stay. Where they can run their hands over the curves of their hips. The swell of their breasts. Cupping each other’s faces and kissing soft and sweet. Stopping only when Martha calls out that she’s set up a room for them. Stopping only when Eliza grins and takes Maria by the hand. Leads her to an empty parlor where it is just them, Martha at the piano, and she teaches Maria to dance.

It’s slow and it’s wonderful. It’s sweet and it’s perfect. Eliza leads, and Maria follows, and Martha serenades them through it all. Counting each beat. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one.

It will take time to reach the Grange, but they have time. If there is one thing they’re not running out of, it’s time. They spend the evening spinning about the floor. Laughing and smiling. Teasing and chasing away demons.

They spend the night curled in each other’s arms. Maria whispering that it’s all right. The wraiths won’t get them here. Eliza keeps her knife by her bedside anyway. They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to. Maria understands, and Eliza loves that about her.  
She truly does.

Martha makes them promise to return as soon as they can, and Eliza begs her to visit them at the Grange. They return one of her horses, but the other Eliza keeps as a gift. One that Martha insists she take with her.  
Victor is fed and happy when they set a saddle back on his back. He’s been well taken care of, and nuzzles them with glee as they get him ready for the journey home. Each day they travel and pass through towns they had struggled to find on their way down south.

Each day it feels like they’re almost ready to rest. Eliza’s so ready for that final rest.

By the time the reach New York, news has already spread about the Duer’s arrest. In fact, there’s a palpable difference in the air. People recognize her. They recognize Maria. And they stop and stare. Whisper and chat. Some even cheer. It’s absurd and ridiculous, and Eliza cannot help but urge her horse on just a small bit faster.  
Crowds have started forming, people are thanking them as they go. Clapping and cheering. Women are waving their handkerchiefs and men are talking amongst themselves. “Why’s everyone acting funny?” Philip asks her curiously.

“Because they have nothing else to do,” Maria replies shortly. It makes Eliza laugh. They reach the Grange without too much more fanfare, though it’s clear the crowds have no interest in slowing down or stopping. Hurriedly, Eliza leads Maria and the children inside and locks the door.

She barely has a chance to breathe before she hears her name being called. She looks up and is swept immediately into her older sister’s arms. Angelica latches onto her and she’s crying hysterically. Calling her name and pulling back to inspect her face. Her throat. Oh God, what have you done to yourself? Her hair. Her hands.

Angelica fusses so much that it takes her a moment to stop and fuss over Philip too. To pick him up and toss him in the air, catch him and hug his giggling and shrieking body to her chest. “Oh Phil! Phil! You’re all right!”

Maria and Susan stand awkwardly in the foyer, but Eliza takes their hands. Leads them with her and sets them both on the couch. Angelica follows after them and sits down across from her. She’s smiling brightly, even with tears in her eyes.

“They’re calling you a hero! A hero! Thomas has told everyone what you did! What you’ve been through! It’s remarkable! You saved the city!”

It’s not how she would call it. She even says as much to Angelica. Setting out to the Long Lakes had never been about saving the city. But her sister doesn’t care. She glances at Maria and pauses only briefly before returning her attention to Eliza. “Please, you must tell me everything,” she insists.

Eliza sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Maria, to her left, gives her strength to speak. Her newly named daughter, on her right, silently offers support where she can. Elzia would prefer to have this conversation with a little less excitement, but there’s no stopping hurricane Angelica. She isn’t interested in waiting for later, she wants to hear it now.

So, with her family piecing itself together and her home finally secure, Eliza smiles. And she tells the story of how she saved her children, and how she fell in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a question? Prompt? Want to say hi? You can find me at: falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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